For many a year Saint Christopher
Served God in many a land;
And master painters drew his face,
With loving heart and hand,
On altar fronts and churches’ walls;
And peasants used to say,--
To look on good Saint Christopher
Brought luck for all the day.
For many a year, in lowly hut,
The giant dwelt content
Upon the bank, and back and forth
Across the stream he went;
And on his giant shoulders bore
All travellers who came,
By night, by day, or rich or poor,
All in King Jesus’ name.
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;
[Illustration: SAINT CHRISTOPHER