Volume 74 / Part 9 — THE AGED DISCIPLE COMFORTING.

Fear not, my son; these terrors are from God.

Hast thou not heard how, when Elijah stood

On Horeb, waiting while the Lord passed by,

Before the still small voice, there came a blast

That rent those ancient mountains? after the wind

An earthquake, after that again a fire?

Aye, when Christ visits first a sinful heart,

The devils that abide there shake with fear;

Who can abide his coming?

I remember,

(How could I not?) that, in his days of flesh,

We—even we, who called ourselves his friends—

As little knew him as dost thou to-day.

In a dark night we sailed upon the lake,

Alone, not knowing where our Master was.

The night was dark, and dark our lonely hearts;

A moon there was, but low, and blurred with clouds;

Only upon the horizon lay a line,

A level line of light, which, near and far,

Marked the black outline of the eastern hills.

Stern was our toil, with every art we had

To speed our vessel; for the breeze had sunk,

Or only came by snatches—till the rain—

Then flashed the incessant lightnings, then the hills

Rang, roared, as though the thunder shattered them;

Then surged the waves against the opposite wind,

Rattled our useless cordage, rent our sail,

Rent, flapping in the tempest, and his might

Seized on our boat, and drave it at his will.

No man was free from fear; we knew too well

Those treacherous waves; and He, whose master voice

Had laid them cowering at his feet, like dogs,

Where was He now?—In some lone mountain wood

He communed with his Father and the angels,

And knew not that we perished there alone.

Alas! far otherwise when in the stern

He slept, amid the hubbub of the storm,

As if on priceless couches, in the pomp

Of Herod’s palace; now He was afar,

Each of us felt the terror of the night,

And each one acted as his nature was.

One fell to prayer; one muttered instant vows;

Another lay and wept aloud; some few

Deemed that the gale was transient, and sate still

Watching their idle nets; some, bolder, strove

To save the canvass, and the labouring mast.

Amongst the band were two, forever first;

One was a reverend man, of ripening years,

Whose steel-grey beard fell on his fisher’s coat,

Even to his belt; the other was a youth,

Whose face, made ruddy by the genial suns

Of five-and-twenty summers, always shone

A God-wove banner of celestial love.

These two were working still, to save the ship,

When the cry rose, “A spirit!” There it walked,

Or seemed to walk, the waters, and drew near.

Then he that wore the fisher’s coat cried out;

“If not to be afraid be brave,” he said,

“When fear were preservation, be not bold;

What men could do we have done; now let be,

Lest haply we be found to fight with God.”

Thus spake he; but we lay down, motionless,

Struck by despair, and waited for our end:

Only the young man bared his trusting brow.

Then spake the Form majestic:

“It is I;

Be of good cheer;” and then we knew our Lord,

And took him up into the ship with us,

And fell before him worshipping, and said,

“Ah, doubt is dead; ah, blessed Son of God!”

Thus scant of faith were we, and ignorant

That he was with us, when we saw him not,

Or deemed him but some spirit of evil, sent

To make complete the horrors of the night.

Our hearts calmed with the waters, we were saved,

And knew our Master’s power, and blessed his love,

And, lo! were landed at the wished-for shore.

H. G. K.

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