'Tis read of one, a ferryman of old, St. Christopher, who on his shoulders bore Across the torrent to the welcome shore The infant Christ. The alien waters rolled Their weltering weight tumultuous; but 'tis told The pilot swerved not 'mid the desperate roar Till landed safe, his tottering burden sore He trembled, lost in reverence, to behold. And thou to me, in that prophetic dream, Which led thee westward o'er the wandering main, Christ-laden, to the land whereof no gleam Had cleft the compass of the narrower brain, The legendary Christopher dost seem, Fulfilling all his destiny again. |