But much he doubted if the King
His work would note or know,
And often with a weary heart
He waded to and fro.
One night, as wrapped in sleep he lay,
He sudden heard a call,—
“O Christopher, come, carry me!”
He sprang, looked out, but all
Was dark and silent on the shore.
“It must be that I dreamed,”
He said, and laid him down again;
But instantly there seemed
Again the feeble, distant cry,—
“Oh, come and carry me!”
Again he sprang and looked; again
No living thing could see.
The third time came the plaintive voice,
Like infant’s, soft and weak;
Saint Christopher
Titian
With lantern strode the giant forth,
More carefully to seek.
Down on the bank a little child
He found,—a piteous sight,—
Who, weeping, earnestly implored
To cross that very night.
With gruff good-will he picked him up,
And on his neck to ride
He tossed him, as men play with babes,
And plunged into the tide.
But as the water closed around
His knees, the infant’s weight
Grew heavier and heavier,
Until it was so great