A memorial volume of sacred poetry by the late Sir John Bowring. To which is prefixed, a memoir of the author, by Lady Bowring |
 |
Morning Hymn.
|
 | A memorial volume of sacred poetry |  |
162
Morning Hymn.
Earth throws down her funeral robe,
Songs and music fill the globe;
I, refreshed by sleep, arise,
Welcomed to morn's melodies.
Songs and music fill the globe;
I, refreshed by sleep, arise,
Welcomed to morn's melodies.
Who is He whose hand hath led
Day from its reposing-bed?
Who is He that bids the night
Fly the calm approach of light?
Day from its reposing-bed?
Who is He that bids the night
Fly the calm approach of light?
'Tis that gracious hand that first
Bid the germ of being burst;
Poured the waters of the sea,
Reared yon azure canopy.
Bid the germ of being burst;
Poured the waters of the sea,
Reared yon azure canopy.
And to crown His mighty plan,
Breathed His spirit into man;
Made him lord of sea and land,
Placed the sceptre in his hand.
Breathed His spirit into man;
Made him lord of sea and land,
Placed the sceptre in his hand.
Sweet it is to feel, to own,
'Tis the hand of God alone
Marks our path, from youth to age,
Guides us through our pilgrimage.
'Tis the hand of God alone
Marks our path, from youth to age,
Guides us through our pilgrimage.
Often those whom most He loves,
Most He chastens and reproves—
Folly leaves to frowardness;
Visits virtue with distress.
Most He chastens and reproves—
Folly leaves to frowardness;
Visits virtue with distress.
163
Everywhere His power is known,
Everywhere He reigns alone;
And when He, our God, is near,
Virtue can have naught to fear.
Everywhere He reigns alone;
And when He, our God, is near,
Virtue can have naught to fear.
| A memorial volume of sacred poetry | |