Saint Christopher Poem by John Critchley Prince

'My limbs wax strong, my thoughts expand,'
Said Christopher of old,
As he lay musing 'mid the hills,
His flock within the fold,—
'I fain would serve some mighty power,
The highest, if may be,
And change this dull and dreamy life
For one more wide and free.'

He girt his robe about his loins,
And wandered far away,
Until he reached a battle-ground,
That shuddered with the fray.
With stalwart strength, and dauntless heart,
He turned the tide of fight,
And snatched a wreath of victory
Ere waned the evening light.

Then the exulting host bowed down
Before a gorgeous shrine,
And seemed to offer words of praise
Unto a power divine.
'A king divine?' said Christopher,
'Where does the monarch dwell?'
'Above, beyond us,' answered they,
'But where we cannot tell.'

Again he gathered up his robe,
And donned his sandal shoes,
Took staff in hand, and wandered forth,
Not knowing where to choose;
Until amid the lonesome wild
He met a hermit hoar,
Who lifted up his kindly eyes,
And scanned him o'er and o'er.

'Where may I find the king divine?'
Outspoke the pilgrim brave,
'I fain would serve him with my strength,
More truly than a slave.'
'His kingdom is not here, my son,
Albeit his cross I wear:
Wouldst win admission to his throne?
Lift up thy voice in prayer.'

'I cannot pray, thou reverent man,
I have not words enow,
But if brave deeds may aught avail,
These will I strive to do.'
'Behold yon torrent!' said the sage,
'That roars from hill to glen;
Wait on its banks, and watch for work;
Serve God by helping men.'

The pilgrim found a leafy tent
Beside that dangerous wave,
And daily sought, with earnest zeal,
To succour and to save;
And when he snatched some precious life
From that o'erwhelming stream,
His good, glad feelings found their way
Up to the great Supreme.

One day there came a little child,
With soft and sunny hair,
With eyes that beamed serenely mild,
With face divinely fair;
And with a voice of winning power
The little stranger cried—
'Come help me, valiant Christopher,
Across this angry tide.'

He took the lovely infant up
Upon his shoulders broad,
With strange emotions in his soul,
That pleased, yet overawed;
But fiercer grew the torrent's force,
And heavier grew the child,
Who almost bowed the strong man down
Beneath those waters wild.

'O river! why dost rave the more
In absence of the storm?
And, child, what art thou that I bend
Beneath thy tiny form?'
'Press on, good servant as thou art,
Be faithful to thy word;
Thou bear'st the world's whole weight to-day,
For I am Christ, thy Lord.'

'The stream is past, the danger o'er,
Blest be thy future powers!
Here plant thy staff. Behold how soon
It blossoms into flowers!
There let it stand and flourish long,
A symbol and a sign
Of thy unswerving faithfulness
Unto the King divine.

'Unsought, untaught of men, thy heart,
Moved by a hidden power,
Did scorn the specious things of earth
For Heaven's transcending dower.
I give thee speech, that thou may'st teach
Hearts kindred to thy own;
Go forth, and bring repentant souls
Unto my Father's throne.'

Prone on the earth, Saint Christopher
His trembling homage paid,
While on his head the holy child
A lasting blessing laid.
When he looked up, the vision fair
Had vanished from his eyes,
But an unwonted glory streamed
Along the wondering skies.