Sacred Meditations and Moral Themes In Verse By the Rev. Robert Montgomery ... Third Edition--Revised and Enlarged |
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THE PRODIGAL SON. |
 | Sacred Meditations and Moral Themes In Verse |  |
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THE PRODIGAL SON.
Oh, mad Impatience of impetuous youth,
How hast thou havocked with a dismal force
The heart of mothers, or the home of friends,
With all the charities that sweeten life,
Or, temper it for virtue!—Who can tell
What tears have rained from parents' eyes, by hot
Self-will and youth's unfeeling rashness drawn,—
Which, but for this, above some duteous child,
Or, round a daughter's fairy grace had smiled
With holy joy, to see how Heaven had reared
A pious offspring in parental shades.
How hast thou havocked with a dismal force
The heart of mothers, or the home of friends,
With all the charities that sweeten life,
Or, temper it for virtue!—Who can tell
What tears have rained from parents' eyes, by hot
Self-will and youth's unfeeling rashness drawn,—
Which, but for this, above some duteous child,
Or, round a daughter's fairy grace had smiled
With holy joy, to see how Heaven had reared
A pious offspring in parental shades.
But whence the fascinating spell, that cheats
The present of proportion; and o'er scenes
Of unreality, by restless Youth admired,
A glare seductive, shining with deceit,—
Contrives to scatter? 'Tis the heart's disease,
Raging as ever!—Hence the fiery youth
From love and order, and domestic powers
Of mild dominion, and parental roof,
Yearns to escape, and, like a planet loose
Broke from the centre where attraction rules,
To wander reckless in the wilds of space,
Flaming disaster wheresoe'er it sweeps,—
The young man from his central hearth departs,
Fooled with ambition, that his lawless will
May riot freely; and, alas! becomes
Pollution's martyr, such as Passion makes
When the blood fevers, till the heart, on fire,
Burns into madness, sin, or sensual crime.
The present of proportion; and o'er scenes
Of unreality, by restless Youth admired,
A glare seductive, shining with deceit,—
Contrives to scatter? 'Tis the heart's disease,
Raging as ever!—Hence the fiery youth
From love and order, and domestic powers
Of mild dominion, and parental roof,
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Broke from the centre where attraction rules,
To wander reckless in the wilds of space,
Flaming disaster wheresoe'er it sweeps,—
The young man from his central hearth departs,
Fooled with ambition, that his lawless will
May riot freely; and, alas! becomes
Pollution's martyr, such as Passion makes
When the blood fevers, till the heart, on fire,
Burns into madness, sin, or sensual crime.
Yet, must experience, bitter, black, and long,
Teach the wild spirit of ungrateful youth,
How early home, the seat of childhood's joy,
Beneath whose shade th' Affections dwell embowered
In maiden freshness, and in morning bloom,
Mid kind restraints of reason, order, law,—
A blessing hath, beyond that wider sphere
Where the loud world, with all its painted scenes,
Enacts the drama keen Excitement loves.
But Time must teach, and Sorrow darkly learn
This lesson of the soul; and not till years
Perchance, their course have channelled on the brow,
Or Pleasure's cheat, ambition's empty dreams,
Or Passion's fell satiety hath taught,
Each, in sad turn, the prodigal a truth,—
Can early happiness be duly prized.
Oh! then, how often does that inward eye
Retentive, (in whose gaze the Past exists
Immortally, the mind's perpetual Now,)
The sunshine of a quiet home revive,
Till yearns the bosom for a scene no more!—
Then, will our conscience, by instinctive love
Pay the dear Past a debt of gratitude
Mournful, as mighty.—Then, in truth, we learn
That never music like a mother's voice,
And never sweetness like a father's smile,
And never pleasure like that home-born throng
Circling calm boyhood,—has the World supplied;
Though much it promised, when our fev'rish mind
Lured by its syren tones, a rover turned,
And, grasping shadows,—lost substantial bliss!
Our simpler tastes, our tones of purer thought,
Our love for that which healthful life demands
In rounds of daily care, and duteous forms
Of self-denial,—these exist no more.
But foul desires, the satans of the soul,
And morbid want, and mutinous unrest,
In place have come; and haply too, remorse,
And jaded passion, jealousy, and scorn,
With a fierce sense of wrong that rots the soul
In secret,—in our cankered being dwell.
And then, like paradise to exiled Eve,
The home deserted through our mem'ry smiles!
Murmur the brooks, and wave the garden-boughs,
And greenly shines the meadow where we played
In sporting boyhood,—till a tearful dew
Melts from the heart, and in the eye dissolves;
And, like the spendthift, soon the Soul decides
Back to lost purity and peace to wend,
Each step, repentance—and each sigh, a prayer.
Teach the wild spirit of ungrateful youth,
How early home, the seat of childhood's joy,
Beneath whose shade th' Affections dwell embowered
In maiden freshness, and in morning bloom,
Mid kind restraints of reason, order, law,—
A blessing hath, beyond that wider sphere
Where the loud world, with all its painted scenes,
Enacts the drama keen Excitement loves.
But Time must teach, and Sorrow darkly learn
This lesson of the soul; and not till years
Perchance, their course have channelled on the brow,
Or Pleasure's cheat, ambition's empty dreams,
Or Passion's fell satiety hath taught,
Each, in sad turn, the prodigal a truth,—
Can early happiness be duly prized.
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Retentive, (in whose gaze the Past exists
Immortally, the mind's perpetual Now,)
The sunshine of a quiet home revive,
Till yearns the bosom for a scene no more!—
Then, will our conscience, by instinctive love
Pay the dear Past a debt of gratitude
Mournful, as mighty.—Then, in truth, we learn
That never music like a mother's voice,
And never sweetness like a father's smile,
And never pleasure like that home-born throng
Circling calm boyhood,—has the World supplied;
Though much it promised, when our fev'rish mind
Lured by its syren tones, a rover turned,
And, grasping shadows,—lost substantial bliss!
Our simpler tastes, our tones of purer thought,
Our love for that which healthful life demands
In rounds of daily care, and duteous forms
Of self-denial,—these exist no more.
But foul desires, the satans of the soul,
And morbid want, and mutinous unrest,
In place have come; and haply too, remorse,
And jaded passion, jealousy, and scorn,
With a fierce sense of wrong that rots the soul
In secret,—in our cankered being dwell.
And then, like paradise to exiled Eve,
The home deserted through our mem'ry smiles!
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And greenly shines the meadow where we played
In sporting boyhood,—till a tearful dew
Melts from the heart, and in the eye dissolves;
And, like the spendthift, soon the Soul decides
Back to lost purity and peace to wend,
Each step, repentance—and each sigh, a prayer.
A child there was, the younger, and how blest!
Dear as the light that in paternal eyes
Was beaming, to his father's loving heart;
But, lawless will and blind impatience lured
The youth, from all that sacredness of love
Which binds affection to a parent's side:
And thus self-exiled, in a reckless hour
He turned his back upon his native hills,
Gathered his store, and in a foreign clime
Lavished in vice what virtuous Age had reaped
From many a field, by sad exertion sown
Through years of labour, such as fathers spend
When love for children masters time and toil.
But, soon the spendthrift drank that bitter cup
Which Retribution for the ingrate fills,
And justly. For, when fortune ceased to gild
His vices, soon the sharers of the sin
By gay debauch, or low carousal—shrank
Far from his blasted lot; and left him lone
And aidless; in the flush of manhood made
A double bankrupt by disastrous crime,
In purse and principle a beggar'd Thing
Blighted and wo-gone!—while the gnawing worm
Of conscience fed upon his wasted mind,
And bowed him to the lowest dust of shame
Dishonoured, and with deep compunction torn.
Dear as the light that in paternal eyes
Was beaming, to his father's loving heart;
But, lawless will and blind impatience lured
The youth, from all that sacredness of love
Which binds affection to a parent's side:
And thus self-exiled, in a reckless hour
He turned his back upon his native hills,
Gathered his store, and in a foreign clime
Lavished in vice what virtuous Age had reaped
From many a field, by sad exertion sown
Through years of labour, such as fathers spend
When love for children masters time and toil.
But, soon the spendthrift drank that bitter cup
Which Retribution for the ingrate fills,
And justly. For, when fortune ceased to gild
His vices, soon the sharers of the sin
By gay debauch, or low carousal—shrank
Far from his blasted lot; and left him lone
137
A double bankrupt by disastrous crime,
In purse and principle a beggar'd Thing
Blighted and wo-gone!—while the gnawing worm
Of conscience fed upon his wasted mind,
And bowed him to the lowest dust of shame
Dishonoured, and with deep compunction torn.
Oh! what a change from him, that blithe and brave
Free-hearted one, whose limbs were like the oaks
In graceful vigour; on whose cheeks the hue
Of health, like morning's radiant blush appeared,
Ere sin had shaded, or demeaning vice
His bloom destroyed.—E'en like a gallant bark
Leaving the port in beautiful array,
With all her symmetry of canvass spread,
While sunbeams dance her painted sides around,
The soft winds carol, and the leaping waves
Laugh in bright tumult, as her beauty floats
Through flashing waters, but at night returns
The wreck of whirlwinds, or of storms the prey,
A battered, trembling, melancholy Shape,
Of sails dismantled, and with masts no more:—
Or, like a tree by sudden winter struck
And blasted, till its ripened blossoms fall
Beneath it, while the languid boughs depend,
Touching the soil, as if with conscious droop
Of melancholy,—that blighted youth became!
A mean, emaciated, sunken Thing,
Scorned by himself, by hollow friends forgot,
Hopeless and aimless, far from God, and Truth,
And home parental;—who was once as gay,
As seems the bark whose beauty decks the wave,
Or looks the tree, whose vernal promise wears
The richest vesture of rudundant spring.
Free-hearted one, whose limbs were like the oaks
In graceful vigour; on whose cheeks the hue
Of health, like morning's radiant blush appeared,
Ere sin had shaded, or demeaning vice
His bloom destroyed.—E'en like a gallant bark
Leaving the port in beautiful array,
With all her symmetry of canvass spread,
While sunbeams dance her painted sides around,
The soft winds carol, and the leaping waves
Laugh in bright tumult, as her beauty floats
Through flashing waters, but at night returns
The wreck of whirlwinds, or of storms the prey,
A battered, trembling, melancholy Shape,
Of sails dismantled, and with masts no more:—
Or, like a tree by sudden winter struck
And blasted, till its ripened blossoms fall
Beneath it, while the languid boughs depend,
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Of melancholy,—that blighted youth became!
A mean, emaciated, sunken Thing,
Scorned by himself, by hollow friends forgot,
Hopeless and aimless, far from God, and Truth,
And home parental;—who was once as gay,
As seems the bark whose beauty decks the wave,
Or looks the tree, whose vernal promise wears
The richest vesture of rudundant spring.
But who can know him in such bleak disguise?—
Shrunk with remorse, and so by feeling bent
As if his form, by famine overtasked
Not to the ground, but to the grave would fall,
At each weak motion!—Trembling thus, in rags
Of wretchedness, and leaning on his staff, he turns
Homeward his way: but, who will greet him there?
And where be they, those Priests of song and soul.
The banquet-friends whose fellowship seemed all
The visions bright of bacchanalian hours
Dreamt, or desired? Alas, poor Prodigal,
He seeks for sympathy, and gets a stone!—
Picture how true of what mere Semblance does
In ev'ry age, to them who build their hope on smiles
Which flatter only while the flattered pays
A sweet return, in favours, feasts, and gold.
Shrunk with remorse, and so by feeling bent
As if his form, by famine overtasked
Not to the ground, but to the grave would fall,
At each weak motion!—Trembling thus, in rags
Of wretchedness, and leaning on his staff, he turns
Homeward his way: but, who will greet him there?
And where be they, those Priests of song and soul.
The banquet-friends whose fellowship seemed all
The visions bright of bacchanalian hours
Dreamt, or desired? Alas, poor Prodigal,
He seeks for sympathy, and gets a stone!—
Picture how true of what mere Semblance does
In ev'ry age, to them who build their hope on smiles
Which flatter only while the flattered pays
A sweet return, in favours, feasts, and gold.
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'Tis in reverse the hollowness of man
Unveils its depth, and darkens into view
Bleak, cold, and barren as the very tomb.
Then, the same door that once by magic oped
E'en at the shadow of the rich man's form,
Creaks on a sullen hinge, or, rudely shuts
When knocks the pauper, and for entrance pleads:
The Hand that grasped you with a glowing force
When Fortune's summer round about you blazed,
Frigid as death, when poor disaster frowns
Or need assails you,—is at once become!
Averted eyes, and alienated looks,
With cold apologies in ceaseless flow,
And bows as courtly as Refusal gives,—
Lo, the sad harvest reaped from venal ties;
Proving the world to be a painted husk,
How huge in promise,—but how hollow, too!
Unveils its depth, and darkens into view
Bleak, cold, and barren as the very tomb.
Then, the same door that once by magic oped
E'en at the shadow of the rich man's form,
Creaks on a sullen hinge, or, rudely shuts
When knocks the pauper, and for entrance pleads:
The Hand that grasped you with a glowing force
When Fortune's summer round about you blazed,
Frigid as death, when poor disaster frowns
Or need assails you,—is at once become!
Averted eyes, and alienated looks,
With cold apologies in ceaseless flow,
And bows as courtly as Refusal gives,—
Lo, the sad harvest reaped from venal ties;
Proving the world to be a painted husk,
How huge in promise,—but how hollow, too!
In this dread climax, when his pangs had reached
That summit, where despair alone is seen,
Did Mercy to remembrance softly bring
Pictures of home, and portraits of the past;
Scenes of the heart, and those associate charms
By fancy cherished. But, above whate'er
The melting pathos of remembered life
Affected,—was a visioned Form of love,
That reverend, hoary, broken-hearted sire,
Upon whose fondness his rebellious pride
Rudely had dashed, as doth the headlong wave
On the high bank that bounds it;—that he saw!
And, so intently seemed the old man's eye
To glisten on him with affecting ray
Of unreproaching love: and with such power
The silver tones of his forgiving lip
Trembled within Imagination's ear,—
That, lo! at length, his indurated breast
Sank into woman's softness; and his eye
Was moistened with such tears as Angels love!
That summit, where despair alone is seen,
Did Mercy to remembrance softly bring
Pictures of home, and portraits of the past;
Scenes of the heart, and those associate charms
By fancy cherished. But, above whate'er
The melting pathos of remembered life
Affected,—was a visioned Form of love,
That reverend, hoary, broken-hearted sire,
140
Rudely had dashed, as doth the headlong wave
On the high bank that bounds it;—that he saw!
And, so intently seemed the old man's eye
To glisten on him with affecting ray
Of unreproaching love: and with such power
The silver tones of his forgiving lip
Trembled within Imagination's ear,—
That, lo! at length, his indurated breast
Sank into woman's softness; and his eye
Was moistened with such tears as Angels love!
And now, behold him, withered, tattered, bowed;
Pale with long famine, wearily he drags
His homeward track; but, so by suff'ring worn,
That through the village, where his Boyhood dwelt,
Unknown he steals, disguised in haggard wo.
Oh, what a tide of memory there rolls,
And what a gush of agony and grief
Runs through his being, when that hill he gains,
Climbed in calm hours of vanished innocence,
And, underneath him, in the sunset pale
Looks on the landmarks of his father's home!—
Mute with remorse, amid the tranquil scene
Awhile he ponders; till the silent forms
Of Things grow eloquent with meek reproach:
Meadow, and tree, and each familiar nook
Instinct with meaning, to his mind appeals
With more than language from rebuke's harsh lip.
For Nature yet her old expressions wore,
And each loved haunt remained familiar still;
There, was the olive he had loved to watch,
There, was the vine his infant hand had plucked,
And there, the field-path, where he often paced
As bright in spirit as the joyous beam
Beside him, and with step as gaily swift
As the wild breeze that hurried o'er his head:
Nothing looked altered.—For the fig-tree stood,
And caught the day-gleam in its dying glow
As oft the boy had watched it, when he sat
Under the twilight of its laden boughs
And fondly wove his fancies!—And, how sweet
The lulling cadence of that well-loved stream!
E'en as of old, so wound its waters still
In stainless beauty down their pebbled way:
Nothing has changed, but, oh! how changed is He!
Pale with long famine, wearily he drags
His homeward track; but, so by suff'ring worn,
That through the village, where his Boyhood dwelt,
Unknown he steals, disguised in haggard wo.
Oh, what a tide of memory there rolls,
And what a gush of agony and grief
Runs through his being, when that hill he gains,
Climbed in calm hours of vanished innocence,
And, underneath him, in the sunset pale
Looks on the landmarks of his father's home!—
Mute with remorse, amid the tranquil scene
Awhile he ponders; till the silent forms
Of Things grow eloquent with meek reproach:
Meadow, and tree, and each familiar nook
141
With more than language from rebuke's harsh lip.
For Nature yet her old expressions wore,
And each loved haunt remained familiar still;
There, was the olive he had loved to watch,
There, was the vine his infant hand had plucked,
And there, the field-path, where he often paced
As bright in spirit as the joyous beam
Beside him, and with step as gaily swift
As the wild breeze that hurried o'er his head:
Nothing looked altered.—For the fig-tree stood,
And caught the day-gleam in its dying glow
As oft the boy had watched it, when he sat
Under the twilight of its laden boughs
And fondly wove his fancies!—And, how sweet
The lulling cadence of that well-loved stream!
E'en as of old, so wound its waters still
In stainless beauty down their pebbled way:
Nothing has changed, but, oh! how changed is He!
But will that Penitent by none be hailed?
Have all forgot him, who in fiery youth
Brake from the bonds a wise affection threw
Around him, and to lawless Pleasure gave
The fatal sacrifice which youth alone
Can offer,—the unblemished mind of man?
No! there was one, whose eye, by love made keen,
Instinctively that wan and wasted form,
And wo-gone countenance,—will read,
And through the cloud of his concealing garb
Worn by pale suffering will directly flash!
For he, who when the rose of infant life
Flushed on his fairy cheek, each dawning trait
Had welcomed; and beside his cradle breathed
Full many a murmuring solitary prayer,
That God might shield him with his sheltering love
From sin and sorrow, and to manhood rear
Those tiny faculties, that now began
To bud and blossom,—he that bleak disguise
Would penetrate, and welcome home his child.
Have all forgot him, who in fiery youth
Brake from the bonds a wise affection threw
Around him, and to lawless Pleasure gave
The fatal sacrifice which youth alone
Can offer,—the unblemished mind of man?
No! there was one, whose eye, by love made keen,
142
And wo-gone countenance,—will read,
And through the cloud of his concealing garb
Worn by pale suffering will directly flash!
For he, who when the rose of infant life
Flushed on his fairy cheek, each dawning trait
Had welcomed; and beside his cradle breathed
Full many a murmuring solitary prayer,
That God might shield him with his sheltering love
From sin and sorrow, and to manhood rear
Those tiny faculties, that now began
To bud and blossom,—he that bleak disguise
Would penetrate, and welcome home his child.
And there, (as often in some yearning hour
When with the past his being overflowed)
The old man takes his meditative stand
On yon green eminence, beside the porch;
Casting his look along the downward path,
Where his mad boy to face the world went forth,
With deep emotion, dim with unshed tears.—
Still on his ear a parting footstep rings,
Still to his eye, a lessening form appears,
E'en as it did, when first the reckless youth
Fled from his shelter.—Oh, that by some thought
Compunctious, softened and subdued at last,
That wanderer might return!—or, if by want
Compelled, or by chastising sickness forced,
Yet to a heart which beat with prayer for him
The penitent would come!—Such meant the sigh,
In words translated, from yon father's soul
Breathed in dejection.
When with the past his being overflowed)
The old man takes his meditative stand
On yon green eminence, beside the porch;
Casting his look along the downward path,
Where his mad boy to face the world went forth,
With deep emotion, dim with unshed tears.—
Still on his ear a parting footstep rings,
Still to his eye, a lessening form appears,
E'en as it did, when first the reckless youth
Fled from his shelter.—Oh, that by some thought
Compunctious, softened and subdued at last,
That wanderer might return!—or, if by want
143
Yet to a heart which beat with prayer for him
The penitent would come!—Such meant the sigh,
In words translated, from yon father's soul
Breathed in dejection.
But, behold! a Form
Feeble and bent, with scarce a robe to shield
His frame that shivers, and with famine pale,
Comes in the distance:—can it be his child,
From strength and symmetry to such a wreck
As that transformed? Is that the fair-browed boy,
Bright as the morning, but more beautiful
In life's young freshness?—Oh, what stirrings deep,
What perturbations through the bosom rise
Of that hoar'd parent! E'en as work the waves
Under a ground-swell, heaves the o'erwrought frame
With strong emotion, terribly intense.
But near, and nearer yet, that haggard shape
Advances,—till a shriek of rapt surprise
Burst from his lips; and forward springs the sire
Nerved with new life, as if to youth restored;
And, while the big tears from his sable orbs
Are gushing, round about the shuddering lad
He spreads the mantle of protecting love;
And folds him in it, with such fond embrace
That their hearts seem like touching flames to melt
Each into each, ecstatically fired!—
But, when the current of emotion sank
Awhile, then upward on the aged face
Of his wronged parent, turns the prodigal
The deep repentance of his pleading eye,
And looked his father into more than love,
And to his features all the parent brought
At once responsive to that mute appeal!
Feeble and bent, with scarce a robe to shield
His frame that shivers, and with famine pale,
Comes in the distance:—can it be his child,
From strength and symmetry to such a wreck
As that transformed? Is that the fair-browed boy,
Bright as the morning, but more beautiful
In life's young freshness?—Oh, what stirrings deep,
What perturbations through the bosom rise
Of that hoar'd parent! E'en as work the waves
Under a ground-swell, heaves the o'erwrought frame
With strong emotion, terribly intense.
But near, and nearer yet, that haggard shape
Advances,—till a shriek of rapt surprise
Burst from his lips; and forward springs the sire
Nerved with new life, as if to youth restored;
And, while the big tears from his sable orbs
Are gushing, round about the shuddering lad
He spreads the mantle of protecting love;
And folds him in it, with such fond embrace
That their hearts seem like touching flames to melt
Each into each, ecstatically fired!—
144
Awhile, then upward on the aged face
Of his wronged parent, turns the prodigal
The deep repentance of his pleading eye,
And looked his father into more than love,
And to his features all the parent brought
At once responsive to that mute appeal!
And is the past of crime and wasteful sin
Unmentioned? Are ungrateful deeds and words,
Baseness and beggary, and wild debauch,
Savage neglect, and spirit-crushing wrongs—
Are all forgotten? Sounds there no reproach,
And comes there not from those paternal lips
A chiding tone of well-deserved rebuke?
No! not a word, or frown, or accent falls,
To mar the softness of forgiving love.
But, bending o'er him with his white-locked head,
And face by feeling shaded, while the eyes
Half-shut, by melting pathos overpowered,
Drop a slow tear,—'tis thus, beside his boy
In this rapt moment stands the grateful Sire!
True, there was outrage, bitter, base, and long,
And many daggers through his riven soul
A son's ingratitude has fiercely plunged,
But yet,—that Prodigal was still his child!
And in the depths of that relation, all
The shrouded past was silently entombed
At once; when Pardon and Compassion threw
Oblivion's pall o'er every thing, but love.
Unmentioned? Are ungrateful deeds and words,
Baseness and beggary, and wild debauch,
Savage neglect, and spirit-crushing wrongs—
Are all forgotten? Sounds there no reproach,
And comes there not from those paternal lips
A chiding tone of well-deserved rebuke?
No! not a word, or frown, or accent falls,
To mar the softness of forgiving love.
But, bending o'er him with his white-locked head,
And face by feeling shaded, while the eyes
Half-shut, by melting pathos overpowered,
Drop a slow tear,—'tis thus, beside his boy
In this rapt moment stands the grateful Sire!
True, there was outrage, bitter, base, and long,
And many daggers through his riven soul
A son's ingratitude has fiercely plunged,
But yet,—that Prodigal was still his child!
And in the depths of that relation, all
145
At once; when Pardon and Compassion threw
Oblivion's pall o'er every thing, but love.
And, reader! art thou by such tale commoved?
Or, do these annals through thy spirit melt,
Like balmy dews on summer's heated soil
At twilight?—Then, a teaching shadow view
In the pure image of yon greeting sire
Whose mercy hailed the home-returning boy,—
Of love Almighty, by redemption preached;
Where God in Christ our blotted past forgives,
And on the bosom of Paternal grace
Welcomes to Heaven this Prodigal of worlds!
Or, do these annals through thy spirit melt,
Like balmy dews on summer's heated soil
At twilight?—Then, a teaching shadow view
In the pure image of yon greeting sire
Whose mercy hailed the home-returning boy,—
Of love Almighty, by redemption preached;
Where God in Christ our blotted past forgives,
And on the bosom of Paternal grace
Welcomes to Heaven this Prodigal of worlds!
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