Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A VISION OF SAINTS: S. CHRISTOPHER, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A VISION OF SAINTS: S. CHRISTOPHER, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Next 'twas a tall and stalwart form I saw
Last Line: "life a white perfumed blossom springs to heaven."
Subject(s): Christopher, Christoper (3d Century); Saints


Next 'twas a tall and stalwart form I saw,
Like Herakles of old, who strode along,
Bearing a staff which seemed to bud and bloom
Into the martyr's flower. Fainter he showed
In outline than the rest, as if I saw
A veiled life half hid behind a cloud
Of legend, or a real life, perchance,
Set round with precious gems of allegory
And consecration fashioned from the sum
Of meaner lives, less sinful, less cast down,
And less triumphant. Was it parable,
Not fact, that bade him be? Then it was well
To feign the tale -- the wave of death, the power
Of evil, the strong man who turned to good,
Whose fleshly strength was broken by the weight
Of a little child -- and this dim saint, the thrall
Of evil once, is precious, as the lives
We track from birth to death.
Thus then my guide
Held converse as we passed.
"No name there is
More strange and quaint and sweet than Christopher's,
Who bore the Christ.
In the far fabulous East
He served, a soldier. Nature, which so oft
Grudges her gifts, gave this man stalwart limbs
And giant strength, joined with the choicer gift
Of a keen brain, and daring will, and high
Ambition which aspires. Him the blithe voice
Of swift adventure called o'er land and sea,
The magical music, heard of nobler souls,
Which dulls all lower voices. More than Prince
This doughty champion showed, a King of men,
Who saw Power shining starlike on the hills
And set his face to reach it. Luxury
Held him nor sensual ease, who was too great
For silken fetters; a strong will and arm
Bent to a higher end than those, and fired
By higher longings.
Every soul of man
Knows its own weakness, so this strength o'ergrown
Only achievement drew. O'er land and sea,
From realm to realm, he went, seeking a Lord
Still mightier than the last, until at length
A slumbering soul, not prizing good or ill,
He found a puissant Prince and served content.
But 'mid the rugged ways of this sad world,
As now he fared unmoved, the frequent sight
Of evil; the blind rage which takes and sways
The warrior in the fight; the hopeless pain
Which unregarded cries to Heaven; the wrong
Done on the earth for ever; the great sum
And mystery of Evil, worked on him
With that strange spell of power which only takes
The strong soul captive. Here was strength indeed,
Greater than mortal, which had power to bind
The mightiest in chains, now forcing them
Despite themselves to wrong, now binding them
With sensual fetters. Was not this enough
To limit Heaven itself? So this rude soul
Bowed to it, taking Evil for his god,
A voluntary thrall. Yet not to him
The smooth foul ways of sense, the paths of wrong,
Brought pleasure of themselves; only a beat
Of pulsing life, the keenness and the glow
Of full impassioned being. So long time
He served the Lord of Evil; deeds of wrong
And anger knew he, stains of sensual sin;
So that, for dread of him, men named his name
'The Unrighteous,' but he recked not. Power and fame
Sufficed him long, and hid from him the fashion
Of his own life, and by what perilous ways
He went, and black unfathomed gulfs of Ill.

Till one day, as he journeyed (so the tale,
The allegory of this sinful soul)
Through a thick wood, which was the deadly shade
Of sense, and of the world, which hid the heavens,
Blinding the eye of day; with wondering thought
He knew his vanquisher, the Lord of Ill,
Cower down as from a blow, hiding his eyes
From some white suffering form.
And lo! his gaze
Met that great symbol of all sacrifice
Which men have worshipped since; the soft sad eyes,
The painful limbs fixed to the Tree of Death
Which is the Tree of Life; and all the past
Fell from him, and the mystery of Love
And Death and Evil; Might which gives itself
To save the Race, and dying, breaks in twain
The vanquished strength of Hell; all these transformed
His inmost being, and his prisoned soul,
Spurning its former chain, stood fair and free,
Unfettered, for a while, and then he fell
Prone on the earth, the mild and pitying eyes
Bent on him still. There he lay motionless
A night of precious sorrow, till at last
The sun rose on the earth and on his soul,
And Dawn, returning, brought the purer Day.

But when he rose, the ancient mastery
And thirst for power, springing anew in him
Once more resistless, over land and sea
Drave him to seek this new and mightier Lord
Who brake the power of Ill. So far and wide
He fared, a passionate Pilgrim, but found not
The Lord Divine -- for Him indeed his eyes
Saw not as yet -- filled with the pride of life,
Touched with desire for good, since it was strong,
But prizing strength alone.
Till as he went
His footsteps chanced upon a stony land
Where sprang no herb. There, in a lonely cell,
Pondered an aged man; no other thing
Of life was there, only wan age, which paused
Upon the verge of death. His giant strength
Was flagging now. Beyond the ghostly hills
The sun was sinking, and the gray of night
Stole upward. Through the plain beneath the cell
A broad black river raged, spanned by no bridge
For travellers, but a dark road stole to it
O'ergloomed by cypress, and no raft was there
Nor ferry. Evermore beyond the shade,
Breast-high, the strong stream roared by dark as doom.

There on the brink he paused, and saw no soul,
Watching the stream of death. Great misery
And weakness took him, and he sank, o'erborne,
Prone on the strand. Then on the farther shore
The sunset, glancing for a moment, fired
A thousand palace casements, soaring spires,
And airy domes, and straight his glad soul knew
That it had seen the city of the King.

Then presently he heard a reverend voice
From out the gloom. And now the sun had set,
And all the hills were hidden.
'Son, thou com'st
Seeking the Lord of Life. There is no way
But through you cruel river. Thou wert strong:
Take rest and thought till strength return to thee.
Arise, the Dawn is nigh.
Then they twain went,
And there that faint soul rested many days.
But when the strong man's strength was come again
His old guide led him forth to where the road
Sank in that dark swift stream. The hills were veiled;
There was no city to see, naught but thick cloud,
And still that black flood roaring. Then he heard
The old voice whisper, 'Not of strength alone
Come they who find the Master, but cast down
And weak and wandering. Yet since strength indeed
Well used is precious, therefore shalt thou plunge
In you cold stream. Death shall not come to thee,
Nor in those chill dark waters shall thy feet
Slip, nor thy life be swallowed. Be it thine
To bear in thy strong arms the fainting souls
Of pilgrims who pass onward day and night,
Seeking the Lord of Light. Thou who long time
Didst serve the Lord of Evil now shalt serve
A higher; and because great penances
Are fitting for great wrong, here shalt thou toil
Long years, till haply thou shalt lose the stain
Of sense and of the world; then shall thy eyes
See that thou wouldst. Go, suffer and be strong.'

Then that rude soul, treading those stony ways,
Went down into the waters. Piteous cries
Called loud to him for help, poor wayfarers
Come to life's goal; wan age and budding youth,
And childhood fallen untimely. He stooped down
With wonder mixed with pity, solacing
Those weakling limbs, and, bearing in his arms
The helpless burden, through the chill dark depths
Of those black swirling waters, undismayed,
Strode onward. Oftentimes the deadly chill
Of ice-cold floods too strong for feebler hearts
Assailed him, yet his giant stature still
Strode upright through the deep to the far shore.
And those poor pilgrims with reviving souls
Blessed him, and left the waters, and grew white
And glorified, and in their eyes he knew
A wonder and a rapture as they saw
The palace of the King, the domes, the spires,
The shining oriels sunlit into gold,
The white forms on the verge to welcome them,
And the clear heights, and the discovered heaven.

But never on his eyes, for all his toil,
Broke that clear sun, nor those fair palace roofs,
As erst upon his weakness. Day and night
He laboured unrewarded, and no gleam
Of that eternal glory, which would shine
Upon those fainting souls, whom his strong arms
Bare upward. Day and night he toiled alone
Amid the deeps of death. Oft would he rise
At midnight, when the cry of sinking lives
Called to him on the brink, and succour them
Without a thought of fear. Yea, though the floods
Roared horribly, and deep called unto deep,
Straight through those hidden depths he strode unmoved
A strong, laborious, unrewarded soul.

Was it because the blot of former sin
Clung to him still uncleansed? I cannot tell;
The stain of ill eats deep. But to my thought
Not thus the legend runs; rather, I deem
He loved in good the strength which erst enthralled
His life to ill. Therefore this striving soul
Still laboured unfulfilled.
Thus the slow years
Passed, till the giant strength at times would flag
A little, and yet bore on. But one still night,
Ere cockcrow, when the world was sunk in sleep,
A summons came; and he arising saw,
With some strange new compassion, on the brink
A childish form. A sweet sad glance divine
Shone from the eyes. And as the strong man took
The weakling to his heart, through the great power
Of Pity with new strength, he braved the deep
Careless with that light load.
But in mid stream
The more than human force, the dauntless spirit
Which long time bore unfalt'ring the great load
Of mortal ills -- ay, though the loud winds beat
And the thick night was blind -- these failed him now,
And, as by some o'erwhelming weight opprest,
His flagging forces tottered; the cold wave
Rose high around him; the once haughty head
Bowed low, the waters stealing to his lip
Engulfed; the burden of the painful world
Crushed his weak shoulders; and a bitter cry
Burst from him -- 'Help! I faint, I sink, I die,
I perish; I am spent, and can no more.
My strength is naught, the deep floods swallow me.
Not of myself I conquered, but of Thee.'

Then suddenly from his spent life he knew
The load withdrawn, and through the midnight gloom
There burst the glorious vision of his dreams,
The palace of the King, the domes, the spires,
The shining oriels sunlit into gold,
The heaven of heavens discovered, and a voice --
'Thou hast sustained the whole world, bearing Me
The Lord of Earth and Heaven. Rise; turn awhile
To the old shore of Time. I am the King
Thou seekest. I have known thy sin, thy pain,
Thy tears, thy penitence. If thy soul ask
Proof of these things, this sign I give to thee.
Set thou thy staff to-night upon the verge
Of these dark waters, and with break of dawn
Seek it, and thou shalt find it burgeon forth
With fair white scented blossoms. This shall be
Witness of what has been.'
And he with joy,
Vanquished at length, obeyed, and with the dawn
Where stood his staff, there sprang the perfumed cup
And petals of a lily: so the tale.
Nay, but it was the rude strength of his life
Which blossomed into purity, and sprang
Into a higher self, beneath the gaze
Of a little child. -- Nay, but it was the might
Of conscious strength, which cast its robes of price
Down on the earth; the new self stripped and purged
Of ingrained pride, which from the deeps of death
Rose painful to the stable earth again,
And grew regenerate through humility.

So for the remnant of his days he served
The Lord of Good, a champion of the Right,
Grown meek. At last the Pagan governor
Bade him deny the Lord who succoured him;
Whom he contemning, gained a martyr's crown
Through pain and death, and is Saint Christopher."

He ended, and I mused in silent thought
On this quaint legend, when again my guide --
"Even so they toil as he, the striving souls
Who live on earth to-day engrossed with care
Willing to better our poor world, which calls
Always with piteous suffrages to Heaven --
Strong souls with deep compassion for the race,
Seeming possest, yet vainly, since their labour
Born of the half unconscious pride of strength
Is only part for others, or for God.
But when a nobler, self-less passion fills
The heart and soul, then only fit reward
Is theirs, and from the depths of their dead selves,
And from the staff of their discarded strength,
And from the unneeded treasures of their past,
The yearning to fulfil the Perfect Scheme,
The full surrender to the Heavenly Will,
Obedience, self-effacement, sacrifice,
Life a white perfumed blossom springs to Heaven."





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