79

SIMON PETER.

BY THE REV. CHARLES B. TAYLER.

"Jesus turned, and looked upon Peter."-LUKE xxii. 61.

A LONELY fisher climbed the rocks that frown
O'er the calm lovely lake of Galilee,

And by an aged palm-tree flung him down,

Where the sweet mountain-air blew fresh and free.

Screened was that little spot, with grass o'erspread,
Alike from cutting blasts and scorching heat,
And a clear streamlet, like a silver thread,
Ran glistening through the green and cool retreat.

There, with dark leaves and flowers of rosy hue, The Oleander cast its grateful shade,

Roses, and Gentian-bells of richest blue,

And golden Lilies decked the lonely glade.

The glowing sky, the mountains steep and dark,
Were mirrored in the glassy lake below,

And moored among the rocks his empty bark
Lay rocking in the waters to and fro.

There was a listless languor in his mien,
Not from dull sloth, but honest labour done,
And oft he turned his eyes with look serene,
To the blue waters, and the setting sun.

A blaze of sunbeams, like a golden crown,
Upon the distant mountains seemed to rest,
As the resplendent orb sunk slowly down,
Amid the gorgeous chambers of the west.

And the cool freshness of the evening air,
Came lightly sweeping o'er the waters calm,
Fanning his sunburnt cheek and forehead bare,
Like an ambrosial gale of fragrant balm.

For in that genial and delightful clime,

The breath of every flower that scents the spring, Comes wafted at the dewy evening time,

Upon the playful zephyr's fluttering wing.

Stretched at his length upon the grass

he lay,

And drank the freshness of the mountain-breeze;

Whiling in thoughtless mood the hours away,

In all the careless luxury of ease.

He was a man of middle age, and yet
No higher thought, or nobler aim had he,
Beyond his anxious toil, his boat, and net,
A simple fisherman of Galilee.

But in that manly and athletic frame,
There slept a living spirit strong and bold,
Like a volcanic fire, a hidden flame
Pent up, and prisoned in its mountain-hold.

And sometimes in a bright and sudden glance, It flashed from that dark earnest deep-set eye, Or knit with burning thought the calm expanse Of that majestic forehead broad and high.

And in that bosom stern there lay concealed
Under the current of his passing years,
A fountain unsuspected, and unsealed,
Of sweet affections, tenderness, and tears.

M

Now the last streak of glowing sunset dies
In the dark azure of the cloudless heaven,
And a pale gleam of silvery lustre lies
Upon the shadowy rocks, and waters even.

The moon comes forth, o'er all the quiet scene
Spreading the chastened splendours of her reign,
Of silent solemn night the radiant queen,
Until his glorious throne, the sun resumes again.

And rising up to gird his fisher's coat,
And join the humble partners of his toil,
The fisher hastens to unmoor his boat,
Prepare his nets, and snare his nightly spoil.

He starts, he listens, and he looks around,

A footstep in the stillness soundeth near,

With his own name, the echoing rocks resound,

And a familiar voice salutes his ear.

"My brother comes," he cried, "the dreams are past

That led the idle wanderer to roam

With worn and wearied feet he seeks at last

His honest labour, and his quiet home.”