Anxieties And Comforts Poem by John Bowring

The dreams which early moments deck'd-
Hope's sunny summer hours, are o'er;
And my frail bark at last is wreck'd
On sullen reason's rocky shore.


I was a joyous streamlet, tost
From hill to vale in eager play;
And now among the mountains lost,
Now sweeping o'er the plains my way.


I kiss'd the flowers,-the woods I taught
To echo back my song;-'tis past!
Lost in the mighty sea of thought,
The little streamlet rests at last.


I trembled to the gentle breeze-
Sent back the gorgeous sunbeams far;
Heard all the moonlight's mysteries,
And smiled with every smiling star.


A mingling light of joy and love,
Of peace and hope a blended sound;
Heaven's azure arches spread above,
And laughing Nature all around.


Ah! these were blissful moments; yet
I revel in their memory,-
And present cares and fears forget
In that departed ecstasy.


Yes! they are fled-those hours are fled-
Yet their sweet memories smiling come,
Like spirits of the hallow'd dead,
And linger round their earlier home.


Rapt in the thought, my passions seem
To drink th' exhausted cup of bliss:
And do I dream? Was ever dream
So bright, so beautiful as this?


Alas! I hear the thunders roll,
And wake, and meditate, and weep;
Night's gloomy mantle wraps my soul,
And cheerless silence rules the deep.


I tread my melancholy road,
No more by vain delusions driven;
Hold solemn converse with my God,
And track my onward way to heaven.


Then from the world's proud glare I turn
To yonder bright and golden sky;
And there I study-thence I learn
The worth of worldly pageantry.


No more with dazzled eyes I look
Upon yon vain and letter'd sage;
For nature is a gentler book,
And deeper wisdom fills her page.


Her groves to me are painted halls;
Perfumes, her early morning air;
Her mountains, castellated walls-
And all is honest welcome there.


Her concerts are of birds and bees,
And rivers, and the glorious sea;
And holy are her revelries,
And pure her joys as thought can be.


Why should I murmur?-O'er this scene,
Tho' night descend and thunders roll,
Man may create a heaven within;
In the still temple of the soul.