Winter: Wednesday Evening Poem by John Bowring

The hour of peace resumes again
Its tranquil, silent, solemn reign;
Sorrow a short cessation knows
On the soft couch of calm repose,
And all is still-the Eternal One
Hath risen from His glorious throne,
And on the midnight's raven pinions
Surveys His infinite dominions.


And who but Thou the world could keep,
When buried thus in evening's sleep?
Who bid that sleeping world awake,
When o'er the hills the day-beams break?
Who call those day-beams from their bed,
When nature is by darkness led?
Thou, Lord, alone! Thy mighty hand
Doth all create, and all command;
In every thing that hand we see,
And more than every thing in Thee.


But who can count the countless throng
That wakes to hear the morning's song;
Or tell the infinite train that rest,
O'erwatched by Thee, on evening's breast;
All from Thy presence joy receiving,
All on Thy generous bounty living?
And we, the lowliest and the least,
With heaven's peculiar favour blest!


Did earth upon our care depend,
Decay would soon with misery blend;
Were we the counsellors of heaven,
All, all would be to ruin driven.
We, helpless as the ephemeral fly,
And sightless as the adder's eye.


But Thou in wisdom's chains hast bound
The mighty universe around;
And mountain's height, and vale's recess,
Speak Thy unwearied watchfulness;
And every sun that splendour gives,
And every orb that light receives,
And solemn night, and joyous day,
And mountain stream and forest lay,
And waves and waterfalls and showers,
And trees and shrubs and fruits and flowers,
And all that nature's face reveals,
And all that nature's womb conceals,
Space, earth, heaven, time, eternity,
Are all upheld, great God! by Thee.


Ours is a hurried pilgrimage,
Youth beckons to the steps of age,
And youth and age too swiftly meet,
The angel of the tomb to greet;
And soon the rays of life are gone,
And soon the time-enduring sun,
Which shines so brightly o'er our head,
Shall shine upon our funeral bed.


Enough-if while we journey here,
Some visions from that holier sphere,
Where the great Spirit sits, array'd
In splendour, light this vale of shade.
Enough-if in this vale of tears,
Some heavenly strains should reach our ears,
Remotely echoed from the hymn
Of cherubim and seraphim.
Enough-if in these earthly bowers
Some leaves of those immortal flowers
Which bloom in living fragrance sweet,
Should grow spontaneous at our feet.


Yes! such Thy servants, Lord! have known,
Such effluence from Thy burning throne:
And such be mine-and when at last
Life's summer evening shall be past,
The shades of night shall curtain me,
And I shall slumber, watch'd by Thee!