WE look with scorn on Peter's thrice-told lie;
Boldly we say, "Good brother! you nor I,
So near the sacred Lord, the Christ, indeed,
Had dared His name and marvellous grace deny."
Oh, futile boast! Oh, haughty lips, be dumb!
Unheralded by boisterous trump or drum,
How oft 'mid silent eves and midnight chimes,
Vainly to us our pleading Lord hath come--
Knocked at our hearts, and striven to enter there;
But we poor slaves of mortal sin and care,
Sunk in deep sloth, or bound by spiritual sleep,
Heard not the voice divine, the tender prayer!
Ah! well for us if some late spring-tide hour
Faith still may bring with blended shine and shower;
If through warm tears a late remorse may shed,
Our wakened souls put forth one heavenly flower!
