The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery :: :: University of Virginia Library

Not poet's lyre, nor painter's line
Could e'er express that look of Thine,
Saviour of men! on craven Peter cast:—
Eternity was in Thy gaze,
And through dark conscience darted rays
Which lighten'd into truth his present, and his past.

Deep eloquence was there,
Beyond the lightning-glare
Red with the fierceness of the flaming storm;
Nor might loud hurricanes which sweep
In thund'ring air-tones o'er the deep
Till the rent ocean heaves like agonizing forms,

So terribly the soul appal
As that one gaze in Pilate's hall
Shook to his moral root a recreant man!
Apostate as he there denied
That Lord, to Whom his worship cried,
“Though all desert Thee, Christ! my spirit never can.”

Dungeon, nor death, nor chains,
Nor all which persecution gains,
Should tempt him from The Truth to fly;
Though all betray'd Him, he would stand
Faithful among a faithless band,
And boldly for His Lord exult to bleed, or die!

Resolve then reign'd in ardent power;
And feeling hued that full-toned hour
With the rich colour hearts delight to show,
In some rapt mood when men appear
Sublimed above unhallow'd fear,
And with celestial warmth reflect an angel's glow.

In such high noon of seraph-zeal,
Our breasts an inspiration feel
Lifting us far beyond each low-born aim;
Wing'd thoughts surmount the walls of time,
And waft us to that world sublime
Where Heaven's clear arches ring with Christ's resounded name.

But He, to Whom all hearts lie bared,
In that flush'd moment then declared
How thrice, e'er yet the wakeful bird would crow,
The saint who seem'd so nobly fired
As if by heaven's own warmth inspired,
Vanquish'd by shameful dread,—would all his vows forego!

And more or less than Man were he
Unmoved who in this hour could see
A brave Apostle from His banner fly:
Assaulted by Satanic power
And sifted in that searching hour,
Thrice did his caitiff mouth the Lord of Love deny!

If mortal pain could mar the rest
Which broods within an angel's breast,
Sure might St. Peter's crime have drawn his tear,—
Who swore with ireful oath untrue
He ne'er the blest Redeemer knew,
And sacrificed his vow upon the shrine of fear.

But, while a third denial hung
With impious accent on his tongue,
Behold! the crowing of the cock began;
And back with its reverted gaze
Bedimm'd with more than tearful haze,
Look'd the calm Eye of Christ on that apostate man!

141

He “look'd,”—oh, what a look was there
Of pity, love, rebuke, and prayer!
Angelic, human, and divine the spell
Wielded by Christ in that dread gaze
Which then on Peter poured its rays,
Till down his weeping heart before it writhed, and fell!

'Twas but a glance, and yet it cleaved
The veil asunder, which had weaved
A hiding darkness round that trait'rous heart:
It open'd each vile gulf within
Where lurk the powers of latent sin,
And made him from himself to shudder back, and start.

By day, by night, where'er he went,
As o'er his head the firmament,
Thus o'er his heart with holiness and light
That piercing glance of Jesu cast
Celestial power, where'er he pass'd,
And overarch'd his soul with meaning, and with might.

'Twas with him, when he watch'd or wept,
Or fasted, toil'd, or woke, or slept;
Hunger'd and roofless, wearied, rack'd and worn,—
By shore, or sea, abroad, at home,
Where'er his pilgrim zeal could roam,
Here was the guiding Star, that watch'd him, though forlorn.

In prison, and o'er chains, it threw
A glory which that angel knew,
Who saw his features radiant in repose,
When calm as cradled infant's breath
He slept upon the brink of death,
In some fond dream of Christ, forgetful of his woes.

And will not fond Devotion say,
That when his form inverted lay
In bleeding anguish on the cross oppress'd,
That still the gaze from Jesu's eye
Beam'd on his soul, till life's last sigh
Wafted the spirit home to its loved Saviour's breast?

But in this page of man may we,
As in some truthful mirror see
Reflected warnings, which may well o'erawe
The boldest, who believe they stand
Like rocks of faith, in self-command,
As did Saint Peter once, before his heart he saw.

There while he weeps a bitter shower
Of anguish in this rueful hour,
Lord of our spirits! may his teardrops fall
In healthful virtue o'er each heart,
That little dreams how Satan's art
To more than Peter's crime may soon betray us all.

Yea, doth not our baptismal vow
Bend o'er us like a burden now,
And crush pale conscience into sacred tears?
For, leagued with flesh, and fiend, and world,
Oh, have we not to nothing hurl'd
The awful promise made,—that God should have our years?

For gold, or pride, or pomp, and pleasure
As though they form'd divinest treasure,
How basely have we barter'd mind and will!
Betraying our predestined cross,
That we should count our life a loss,
Except for Christ we lived, self-crucified and still.

Sole Healer of the wounded heart!
Who now ensphered in glory art,
When Peter-like, our prostrate vows we break,
Let no red lightnings of Thy wrath
Flash their dread fury o'er our path,
Nor regal thunder-tones Thy terrors o'er us wake,—

But turn Thee with subduing eye,
And from Thy bliss beyond the sky
Look, as Thou didst on Thine apostle's fears:
So melt us into anguish true,
Till Penitence our treason rue
And bathe Thy mercy-seat with love's remorseful tears.