Classic and Contemporary Poetry
A VISION OF SAINTS: S. CHRISTOPHER, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) 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." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ST. 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