HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
* * * * *
SAINT CHRISTOPHER.
"Carry me across!"
The Syrian heard, rose up, and braced
His huge limbs to the accustomed toil:
"My child, see how the waters boil?
The night-black heavens look angry-faced;
But life is little loss.
"I'll carry thee with joy,
If needs be, safe as nestling dove:
For o'er this stream I pilgrims bring
In service to one Christ, a King
Whom I have never seen, yet love."
"I thank thee," said the boy.
Cheerful, Arprobus took
The burden on his shoulders great,
And stepped into the waves once more;
When lo! they leaping rise and roar,
And 'neath the little child's light weight
The tottering giant shook.
"Who art thou?" cried he wild,
Struggling in middle of the ford:
"Boy as thou look'st, it seems to me
The whole world's load I bear in thee,
Yet--" "For the sake of Christ, thy Lord,
Carry me," said the child.
No more Arprobus swerved,
But gained the farther bank, and then
A voice cried, "Hence _Christopheros_ be!
For carrying thou hast carried Me,
The King of angels and of men,
The Master thou hast served."
And in the moonlight blue
The saint saw,--not the wandering boy,
But him who walked upon the sea
And o'er the plains of Galilee,
Till, filled with mystic, awful joy,
His dear Lord Christ he knew.
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