The Gospel Miracles :: :: University of Virginia Library

'Tis sweet to him, who treasures lore divine,
The coasts, with zeal of palmer old, to trace,
Hills, vales, and streams of holy Palestine;
And mark in every ancient-hallowed place
What rays of glory wont of yore to shine,
What acts of wonder and what words of grace:
How here the mourner heard glad news of rest;
Here the deaf ear the Saviour's presence blest,
The sightless eye beheld, the speechless tongue confest.

And sweet to them, whose bounded lot at home
Constrains their steps in quietude to stay,
Yea, sweet it is to them, afar to roam
In thought companions of the palmer's way,
And to the mother land of Christendom
The debt of more than patriot fondness pay.
If Judah's palmy hills their sojourn be;
Or Jordan's flood; or lone Tiberias' sea;
Or thy once glorious towns, thrice favour'd Galilee.

Yes, favour'd Galilee, the boast was thine,
To see the gross o'ershadowing darkness melt,
So spake Isaiah, at the light divine.
Then Cana saw the crystal water dealt
Forth at a word in cups of generous wine;
From far the healing voice Capernaum felt;
Bethsaida's desert hail'd the growing bread;
By Tabor's mount the howling demon fled;
And Naïn's crowd proclaim'd the widow's rescued dead.

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Each spot, as on the pilgrim's feet proceed,
Teems with memorials of creation's Lord;
While, ever bounteous, he the boon decreed,
Meet prize of faith, the willing mind's reward:
Yet one there is, where no stupendous deed
With mark peculiar stamps the fair record:
His title thence tho' Israel's Prophet drew,
And there in wisdom as in stature grew,
And thence his rising beams the promis'd day-spring threw.

Ah, wherefore was it, Nazareth, that He,
Who lov'd his own with tenderness and ruth,
Could work no work of mightiness in thee,
Sure witness to his words of heavenly truth;
In thee, the nursery of his infancy;
In thee, the dwelling of his ripening youth?
Tho' still he blest the Galilean strand,
And ev'n his mercy reach'd Sidonian land,
Why of his love in thee does no memorial stand?

'Twas that the promise of his early day,
Which thou beheldest, pure and undefil'd;
'Twas that the brightness of his noontide ray,
When youth redeem'd the promise of the child;
'Twas that the beams of grace, confest to play
Around him with majestick glory mild;
What time before thy sons he 'gan unfold
Truths in Isaiah's mystick scroll inroll'd,
And in himself reveal'd the Lord's Anointed told;

'Twas that his wonders on thy borders wrought,
And thence by fame thro' all thy region spread,
With strength celestial, as with wisdom, fraught,
Shewn in the blind, the lame, the sick, the dead;
All fail'd to conquer the reluctant thought,
Of error fond, by prejudice misled:

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All fail'd to thy benighted sons to prove,
'Gainst heavenly truth whilst earthly passions strove,
His ministry divine, his mission from above.

“What, is not this the carpenter?” they cried;
“A craftsman, and the craftsman Joseph's son?
And she, who bore him, doth not she reside
With us, his mother Mary? nor unknown
His brethren, sisters; do not all abide
Our fellows they? Then how has he alone”—
Hard were the words, and sharpen'd by offence,—
“How to a Prophet's name has he pretence?
And whence his works of might? his words of wisdom whence?”

Alas! had honest hearts the question made,
They to themselves had made the meet reply.
Such might, such wisdom, thus by man display'd,
Whence could they come, unless from God most high?
But worldly thoughts the better mind betray'd,
The Prophet's high pretensions to deny,
And held them back from faith. And to his might
Forbore to work before their erring sight,
What, having pow'r to see, they would not see aright.

Yet here and there a faithful one was seen,
Who on their country's Prophet durst rely:
So still amid the world's most dreary scene
Gleams forth a spark of heav'n-lit piety;
In the waste wilderness an islet green,
A gem of light in heaven's dark canopy.
On them, of number scant, and in the shade
Of lowly life, unnam'd and unportray'd,
The hand, whose touch was health, the approving Saviour laid.

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And, oh, if such thy multitude had been,
Prompt to submit to reason's sage control,
What mighty works hadst thou, fond city, seen
Wrought in thy streets; and of thy sons made whole
How many a faint and heart-sick Nazarene
Had health of body felt, and peace of soul!
But on thy spirit wilful slumber lay:
And He, thy Prophet, whom thou sought'st to slay,
Dishonour'd gave thee o'er to thine own will a prey!

Now, pilgrim, on! And while thou wendest slow
O'er Nazareth's white hills and grassy dell,
Forbear around thy curious glance to throw,
Seeking the site of some high miracle.
Such marvel there the Saviour deign'd not shew!
Note thou the fact, the reason ponder well:
And hark! a heav'n-taught voice, in whispers clear,
Drops in the portal of thy mental ear
Words of deep caution wise, and reverential fear.

“God on the willing mind his aid bestows,
Enough to guide it on its homeward way:
But, who reject the proffer'd bounty, those
He gives in wilfulness of soul to stray;
Nor upon eyes, that 'gainst his radiance close
Their lids presumptuous, sheds his sunny ray.
Have faith in Christ, and He will bring relief:
Spurn Him; and bear, as best thou may'st, thy grief,
To idle reasonings left, and graceless unbelief.”