University of Virginia Library

A PRODIGAL'S RETURN.

And now, behold him, wither'd, tatter'd, bow'd;
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 woe.
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,
Climb'd in calm hours of vanish'd innocence,
And underneath him in the sunset pale
Looks on the landmarks of paternal 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 remain'd familiar still.
There, was the olive he had loved to watch;
There, was the vine his infant hand had pluck'd;
And there, a 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 which hurried o'er his head;
Nothing look'd alter'd:—for, the fig-tree stood,
And caught the day-gleam in its dying glow
As oft his boyhood watch'd it, when he sat
Under the twilight of its laden boughs
And fondly wove his fancies; and, how sweet
The lulling cadence of yon 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!