The Gospel Miracles :: :: University of Virginia Library

With eyes upcast to Tabor's wood-crown'd head,
As seeking one whom yet they fail to see,
Around its base a mingled crowd is spread,
Of Israel's sons a mingled company.

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And here a father's drooping form, and here,
Foaming with rage, a maniack child, appear:
Dash'd on the ground the child, and grovelling low;
The father bending o'er in mute despairing woe.

Keen is that father's sorrow for his child!
His only son demoniack rage had stung;
Sense from his soul's dominion was exil'd;
Clos'd was his ear, and speechless was his tongue.
He heard not, he, a father's tones of love!
He spake not, he, such accents as might move
To joy a father's feelings; as with pride,
Which none but parents know, the opening bloom he eyed!

But deep affection, still perchance more deep
For that the child was stamp'd affliction's prey,
Would o'er the father's soul her empire keep,
And pity strengthen nature's inborn sway.
As rack'd he lay beneath the demon's power,
And felt the crisis of the torturing hour,
In frantick rage, or melancholy mood,
And brav'd the burning flame, or plung'd beneath the flood;

Could man, of woman born, not form'd of stone,
Weep not, to hear and see the stricken child:
To hear his furious yells, his plaintive moan;
And see his gnashing teeth, and eyeballs wild?
And must not he, with anguish trebly keen,
The father, who begat him, mark the scene:
And his heart weep with blood drops o'er his son,
His age's broken stay, his lov'd, his only one?

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Yea, keen that father's sorrow for his child!
Sorrow which knew not hope; for on the gloom
Of cheerlessness no ray of healing smil'd:
The fiend had triumph'd o'er him from the womb.
Nor breathes there one, that malady to quell;
Forth from the child the tyrant fiend expel;
The string, that holds the prison'd tongue, unbind;
And reason's light diffuse o'er the benighted mind.

Yes, one there is, whose will the demons own.
Heard ye not how the heal'd his fame resound,
From the far crags of Syrian Lebanon,
To Kedron's brook, and eastern Jordan's bound?
How banded fiends releas'd at his behest
Her whose vex'd frame a sevenfold plague possest;
And him, the dwelling of the host unclean,
The inmate of the tombs, the untam'd Gadarene?

Yes, there is one. Fly, father; quickly fly—
But no! apart from men on yonder hill
He lingers. Turn then to his followers, try
His chosen friends. Alas, not their's the skill,
To call the demons forth: not their's the mind,
By pray'r sublim'd, by abstinence refin'd;
Not their's the faith, that can yon mount unplace,
And say “Begone, and plant 'mid the Great sea thy base!”

But who is He, whose footsteps downward bend
From Tabor's steep? The crowd with dread amaze
Before the majesty of brightness bend,
Which o'er his aspect beams celestial rays.

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Now, father, while the gathering crowds salute
The mighty Master, urge thy earnest suit;
Quick to his eyes the piteous sufferer shew,
And utter all thy wish, and tell of all thy woe.

Tell, how from infant days the fiend malign
Hath rul'd imperious o'er that child forlorn;
Compell'd a senseless, speechless, thing to pine,
His reason blinded, and his body torn:
Then pray the Saviour on thy child to cast
A look of love: thy dearest, and thy last!
His is the great prerogative to save,
If thou his pow'r adore, his kind compassion crave.

'Tis done: the tale of woe; the anxious pray'r;
The sight distressful of the tortur'd child,
Rending with shrieks of agony the air,
All torn, and foaming, and with dust defil'd;
To the kind words of promise, which bespeak
Faith in the supplicant, his answer meek,
Where hope, with fear at strife, 'mid tears of grief,
“Lord, I believe,” exclaims, “help thou mine unbelief:”

Have reach'd the Saviour's heart. “Flee hence,” he cries,
“Fiend, deaf and dumb!” and lo, the fiend is fled.
The child the crowd survey with wondering eyes,
Sore rent, and prostrate, and in semblance dead.
Dead but in semblance! See, he moves, he lives;
The Saviour's touch reviving vigour gives,
Awards the prize by faith's obedience won,
And to the father's arms restores his rescued son.

“Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief!”
Thus in his breast conflicting passions strove,
While for his child the suppliant sought relief,
With the deep yearnings of a father's love.

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For help, surpassing human power, he knelt;
Hope in his heart, but not unmix'd he felt
With fear's misgivings, as with tears he pray'd
Him, whom in faith he own'd, that wavering faith to aid.

The Saviour heard, and ratified the claim,
Sincere of purpose, tho' in vigour weak.
Not his to quench the dimly burning flame!
Not his the bent and bruised reed to break!
The willing mind, the honest heart and good,
With eyes of pitying tenderness he view'd;
Fann'd the faint flax, sustain'd the drooping reed,
Himself supplied the strength, and gave the promis'd meed.

Nor vain the thought, as to that page we turn,
That there the scholar of the Saviour's school
May in that lively portraiture discern
His own resemblance and his Master's rule.
For tho', in conscience self-abas'd, he deem
Not his the unshaken faith, may best beseem
The flock of Him, whose character is light,
Whose word the truth of God, whose works the Spirit's might;

Yet may his plaint the Saviour's ear arrest,
His pray'r secure the Saviour's kind regard,
His faith, tho' faint, with rich increase be blest,
And reap its own “exceeding great reward;”
If, lowly prostrate at the Almighty throne,
He make his woes, his wants, his weakness known;
Seek from the Fountain of all good relief;
And cry, “Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief!”