Songs Unsung

by Lewis Morris

SAINT CHRISTOPHER.

Christopher! There is many a name of Time
Higher than this in pride and empery;
There is a name which like a diadem
Sits on the imperial front, so that men still
Bow down to Cæsar;—deathless names enough
Of bard and sage, soldier and king, which seize
Our thought, and in one moment bear us forth
Across the immemorial centuries
To Time's first dawns—a bright band set on high,
Who watch the surging of the restless sea
Whose waves are generations. Yet not one
More strange and quaint and sweet than Christopher's,
Who bare the Christ.

In the expiring days
Of the old heathen ages lived the man
Who bore it first. The elder Pagan gods
Were paling now, and from the darkling groves
And hollow aisles of their resounding fanes
The thin shapes fled for ever. A new God
Awoke the souls of men; and yet the shrines
Of Aphrodité and of Phoebus still
Drew their own votaries. The flower of faith,
Plucked from its roots, and thrown aside to die,
Is slow to wither, keeping some thin ghost
And counterfeit of fairness, though the life
Has fled for ever, and 'twas a dead thing
To which the Pagan bowed.

In the far East
He served, a soldier. Nature, which so oft
Is grudging of her blessings—mating now
The sluggish brain and stalwart form, and now
Upon the cripple's limbs setting the crown
Of godlike wisdom—gave with generous hand
Beauty and force to this one, mighty limbs
And giant strength, joined with the choicer gift
Of thoughts which soar, and will which dares, and high
Ambition which aspires and is fulfilled
In riches and in honour.

Every year
Of prosperous manhood left him greater grown
And mightier. Evermore the siren voice
Of high adventure called o'er land and sea;
The magical voice, heard but by nobler souls,
Which dulls all lower music. More than king
This great knight-errant showed; a king of men
Who still before his strong eyes day and night
Saw power shining star-like on the hills,
And set his face to gain it. Luxury
Held him nor sensual ease who was too great
For silken fetters, a strong soul and hand
Bent to a higher end than theirs, and touched
To higher issues; a fair beacon set
Upon a lordly hill above the marsh
Of common life, but all the more laid bare
To the beating of the whirlwind.

Every soul
Knows its particular weakness: so for him
This great strong soul set in its pride of place;
The charm of Power worked like a spell; high power
Unchecked, untrammelled, fixed with none to rule
Above it, this could bend the nobler soul
Which naught might conquer. Over land and sea,
Hiring his mighty arm and strength, he fared
To sovereign after sovereign, always seeking
A stronger than the last: until at length
He found a puissant prince, so high, so great,
The strong sway held him, and he lived content
A sleeping soul, not knowing good or ill,
Resting in act, and with it satisfied—
A careless striving soul who sought no more.

But midst the miry ways of this sad world,
As now he fared unmoved, the frequent sight
Of evil; the blind rage which takes and sways
The warrior after battle till he quench
His thirst in blood and torture; the great pain
Which everywhere cries heavenward, every day
With unregarded suffrage; the foul wrongs
Which are done on earth for ever; the dark sins
Sinned and yet unrequited; the great sum
And mystery of Evil, worked on him
Not to allure, not to repel, but only
With that strange spell of power which knows to take
The strong soul captive. Here was power enough,
Mightier than mortal strength. The greatest king
Whom ever he had served compared with this
Showed puny as a child; this power which took
The mightiest in chains, now forcing them
To wrong and blood and ill, now binding them
With adamant chains within the sensual sty
Where they lay bound for ever. Here was force
To limit Heaven itself. So this strong soul
Bowed to it, taking Evil for his lord,
A voluntary thrall. Yet not to him
The smooth foul ways of sense, the paths of wrong,
Brought pleasure of themselves; only to know
The unrestrainèd passion surge, a beat
Of satisfied life, the glory and the glow
Of full untempered being. And so long time
He served the Lord of Evil: deeds of wrong
And anger, deeds of soft and sensual sin,
All these he knew, a careless satisfied soul,
So that for dread of him men named his name
"The unrighteous;" but he cared not: power and fame
Sufficed him long, and hid from him the fashion
Of his own life and by what perilous ways
He walked, and by what fathomless black seas,
Abysmal deeps, and treacherous gulphs of Ill.

Till one day as they wandered (so the tale)
Through a thick wood whence came no gleam of light
To break the ghostly shadows—with amaze
He saw his master the great Lord of Ill
Cower down as from a blow and hide his eyes
From some white ghostly figure. As he gazed
The old chains fell from him, and with a glance
He rose up free for ever. For his soul
Met that great symbol of all sacrifice
Which men have worshipped since; the soft sad eyes,
The agonised limbs nailed 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 liberate the world and dying breaks
The vanquished strength of Hell; all these transformed
His very being, and straightway the strong soul,
Spurning his ancient chain, stood fair and free
Alone, a moment with the scars of gyves
Upon his neck and limbs, and then fell down
Prostrate upon the earth, the mild eyes still
Bent on him pitiful. There he lay stretched
Through the long night of sorrow, till at last
The sun rose on his soul, and on the earth,
And the pure dawn returning brought the day.

And when he rose the ancient mastery
And thirst for power, springing anew in him,
Once more, resistless, over land and sea
Impelled him, seeking this new mightier Lord
Who broke the power of Ill. So through all lands
He passed, a passionate pilgrim, but found not
The Prince he sought, only great princes, strong
And valorous he found, who bowed them down
Before the power of Evil; but for them
He took no thought, who had seen their master blench
Before the Lord of Light; but him indeed
He saw not yet; filled with the pride of life,
A satisfied soul which bowed not down to wrong,
Touched with desire for good, since good was strong,
But loving strength alone.

So as he fared
He came upon a dark and stony land
Where smiled no flower; there, in a humble cell,
There dwelt an aged man; no other thing
Of life was there, only wan age, which dwelt
Upon the brink of death. The giant strength
Was flagging now, while on the distant hills
The sun was sinking and the gray of night
Stole upward. Through the plain beneath the cell
A broad black river raged, where was no bridge
For travellers; but a dark road stole to it
O'ergloomed by cypress, and no boat was there
Nor ferry, evermore beyond the shade
Breast-high the strong stream roared by black as death.

There sate he on the brink and saw no soul
As he gazed on the stream of death. Great misery
And weakness took him, and he laid him down
On that cold strand. Till, when his heart beat slow
And his life drooped, lo! on the further shore
The sunset, lingering for a moment, fired
A thousand palace windows and the spires
And domes of a fair city; then the night
Fell downward on them, but the unconquered soul
Within the failing body leaped and knew
That it had seen the city of the King.

Then swooned he for awhile, and when he knew
His life again he heard a reverend voice
Speak through the gloom. And all the sun had set
And all the hills were hidden.

"Son, thou com'st
To seek the Lord of Life. There is no way
But through yon cruel river. Thou wert strong;
Take rest and thought till thy strength come to thee.
Arise, the dawn is near."

Then they twain went,
And there that sick soul rested many days.

And when the strong man's strength was come again,
His old guide led him forth to where the road
Sank in that black swift stream. The hills were dark,
There was no city to see, nought 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. Oftentimes with feet
Wayworn and weary limbs, they come and pass
The deeps and are transformed; but he who comes
Of his own strength from him long time the King
Hides him as erst from thee. Yet, because strength
Well used is a good gift, I bid thee plunge
In yon cold stream, and seek to wash from thee
The stains of life. No harm shall come to thee,
Nor in those chill dark waters shall thy feet
Slip, nor thy life be swallowed. It is thine
To bear in thy strong arms the fainting souls
Of pilgrims who press onward day and night
Seeking the Lord of Light. Thou, who so long
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 time 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 strong soul, treading those stony ways,
Went down into the waters. Painful souls
Cried to him from the brink; sad lives, which now
Had reached their toilsome close; worn wayfarers,
Who after lifelong strivings and great pain
And buffetings had gained the perilous stream
With heaven beyond; wan age and budding youth
And childhood fallen untimely. He stooped down
With wonder mixed with pity, raising up
The weakling limbs, and bearing in his arms
The heavy burden, through the chill dark depths
Of those cold swirling waters without fear
Strode onward. Oftentimes the dreadful force
Of that resistless current, which had whelmed
A lower soul, bore on him; oftentimes
The icy cold, too great for feebler hearts,
Assailed him, yet his mighty 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 brink to welcome them,
And the clear heights, and the discovered heaven.

But never on his eyes for all his toil
That bright sun broke, nor those fair palace roofs
As erst upon his weakness. Day and night
The selfsame cloud hung heavy on the hills,
Blotting the glorious vision. Day and night
He laboured unrewarded, with no gleam
Of that eternal glory, which yet shone
Upon those fainting souls, whom his strong arms
Bore upward. Day and night he laboured still,
Amid the depths of death. Ay, he would rise
At midnight, when the cry of fainting souls
Called to him on the brink, and so go down
Without one thought of fear. Yea, though the floods
Roared horribly, and deep called unto deep,
Through all those hidden depths he strode unmoved,
A strong, laborious, unrewarded soul.

Was it because the stain and blot of wrong
Were on him still uncleansed? I cannot tell.
The stain of ill eats deep, and nought can cleanse it,
Nay hardly tears of blood. But to my thought
Not thus the legend runs; rather I deem
That what of good he loved was only strength,
The pride of conscious Power—that which had led him
To strong rude wrong, the same sense, working on him,
Led him through weariness of wrong to use
His strength for goodness. Oftentimes Remorse
Comes not of hatred of the wrong, nor love
Of the good, but rather from the shame which Pride
Knows which has gone astray and spent itself
Upon unworthy ends. So this strong soul
Laboured on unfulfilled. Yet who shall trace
By what hidden processes of waste and pain
The great Will is fulfilled, and doth achieve
The victory of Good?

So the slow years
Passed, till the giant strength at times would flag
A little, yet no feebleness was there,
But still the strong limbs carried him unmoved
Through those black depths of death. Till one still night,
At midnight when the world was sunk in sleep,
The summons came, "A Pilgrim!" and he saw
With a new-born compassion, on the shore
A childish form await him; a soft smile
Was on the lips, a sweet sad glance divine
Within the eyes, as in a child's eyes oft
Knowledge not earthly, infinite weakness, strive
For mastery. As the strong man stooped and took
The weakling to his breast, through the great might
Of Pity, grown to strength, he took the deep
With that light load in his arms.

But as he went,
The strength greater than human, the strong limbs
Which bore long time unfaltering the great pain
And burden of our life; the fearless heart
Which never blenched before, though the winds beat
And all the night was blind; these failed him now,
And as by some o'erwhelming load dragged down,
His flagging footsteps tottered; the cold wave
Rose higher around him, the once mighty head
Bowed-down, the waters rising to his lip
Engulfed in the depths; the weight of all the earth
Seemed on his shoulders—all the sorrow, the sin,
The burden of the Race—and a great cry
Came from him, "Help! I sink, I faint, I die,
I perish beneath my burden! Help, O King
Of Heaven, for I am spent and can no more!
My strength is gone, the waters cover me,
I stand not of myself. Help, Lord and King!"

Then suddenly from his spent life he felt
The great load taken; through the midnight gloom
There burst the glorious vision of his dream—
The palace of the King, the domes, the spires,
The shining oriels sunlit into gold,
The heaven of heavens discovered; then a voice,
"Rise, Christopher! thou hast found thy King, and turn
Back to the earth, for I have need of thee.
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 Prince
Thou seekest; I a little child, the King
Of Earth and Heaven. I have marked thy toils,
Labours, and sorrows; I have seen thy sins,
Thy tears, and thy repentance. Rise and be
My Servant always. And if thou shalt seek
A sign of me, I give this sign to thee:
Set thou thy staff to-night upon the verge
Of these dark waters, and with early dawn
Seek it, and thou shalt find it blossomed forth
Into such sweet white blooms as year by year
The resurrection of the springtide brings
To clothe the waste of winter. This shall be
The sign of what has been."

And that strong soul,
Vanquished at length, obeyed, and with the dawn
Where stood his staff there sprung the perfumed cup
And petals of a lily: so the tale.
Nay, but it was the rude strength of his soul
Which blossomed into purity, and sprang
Into a higher self, beneath the gaze
Of a little child! Nay, but it was the might
Of too great strength, which laid its robes of pride
Down on the ground, and stood, naked, erect,
Before its Lord, shamefast yet beautiful!
Nay, but it was the old self, stripped and purged
Of ingrained wrong, which from the stream of Death
Stood painful on the stable earth again,
And was regenerate through humility!

So for the remnant of his days he served
The Lord of Goodness; a strong staff of right
Yet humble. Till the Pagan Governor
Bade him deny the Prince who succoured him,
And he refusing, gained a martyr's crown
In cruel death, and is Saint Christopher!