Winter: Monday Morning Poem by John Bowring

And so the active week again
Its course begins-and so renew'd,
Our moments' busy multitude,
Falling like rapid drops of rain,
Sink in the grave; and so we die;
The woods will have lost their harmony,
Life's sun sink down in the gloomy west-
The beauty that gladden'd the eye is faded,
The spirit of joy is hush'd to rest,
The smiles which delighted the soul are shaded,
The stars of heaven are clouded,
And the glorious brightness of day;
And he who on rapture's bosom lay,
In the funeral bier is shrouded.
Peace smiled from her sanctuary,
She smiled-but smiles no more;
For the grave has closed its prison-door
On the pilgrim weak and weary.
In frowns and storms the morning calls;
And man, who was yesterday glad and gay
As the evening ephemera,
Like the ephemera falls.


Long and sweet is the tired one's sleep;
But calmer his sleep and softer his bed
Whose pillow is made of the grave-clod deep,
With the green grass over his head.
Curtain'd is he by the vapour's damp,
Lull'd by the song of the even;
Lighted is he by the pale moon's lamp,
Watch'd by the eye of heaven.
Others may hear the heavy bell toll,
Others the funeral train may see;
He hears no dirge for his slumbering soul,
He is sleeping tranquilly.
There let him rest,-he toiled awhile,
And now he throws off his burden of toil.


There is a world whose cares, like this,
Can never disturb the calm of bliss,
Where He, who is the great light of all,
In His own peculiar glory shineth;
Who turn'd in His hand this worldly ball,
And its hopes and its memories sweetly entwineth.
He raised heaven's azure arch sublime
On pillars of strength that totter never;
Man is the victim of death, of time,
Thou remainest the same for ever.
These shall perish, while Thou endurest,
These as a vestment shalt Thou change;
Thou remainest strongest, surest,
Thro' eternity's endless range.
Thou Thyself art Eternity-
'Tis but another name for Thee!
Suns may be darken'd, and planets shake,
Earthquakes may stony mountains break,
Comets may swallow up the sea;
But Thou, unmoved as the splendid sun,
This sandy desert shining on,
Lookest on creation and decay,
And still pursuest Thy glorious way,
Wrapt in Thine own immensity.


What should we fear? waking or sleeping,
Man is alike in Thy holy keeping.
Let him not shrink, tho' his bark be driven
By the mad storm-let nought alarm him;
The tempest may burst, but cannot harm him;
Safely he steers to his port in heaven.
God is around us, o'er us, near us,
What have his children then to fear?
Is He not always present to hear us,
Willing to grant, as willing to hear?