Che Little Pilgrim. In a large old house with two kind aunts, And a happy child she was I ween, Her favourite haunt in the summer time, There are not many such. To puzzle a young brain, And the poor child had no kind friend, The meaning to explain. For though her aunts were very kind, They were not very wise, They only said, "dont read so child, For sure you'll hurt your eyes!" But Marian still went reading on, And visions strange and wild, Began to fill the little head, Of the lonely dreaming child. THE LITTLE PILGRIM. For she thought that Christian and his wife, And all his children too, Had left behind their pleasant home And done what she must do. I wish my aunts would go with me, They are so deaf, and rather lame, They 'd think it quite a task. No! I must go alone, I see, And I'll not let them know, Or like poor Christian's friends, they'll say, But I must wait till some grand scheme, Can all their thoughts engage; And then I'll leave my pleasant home, And go on Prilgrimage." She had not waited long, before One fine autumnal day, She saw the large old coach arrive, To take her aunts away. "We're going out to spend the day," The two old ladies said, "We mean to visit Mrs. Blair, Poor soul, she's sick in bed. But Marian you must stay at home, The lady's ill you see, You can have your dinner if you like; In the large old Apple-tree. And play in the garden all the day, Quite happy and content." 105 106 THE LITTLE PILGRIM. A few more parting words were said, The servants too, were all engaged A high, steep hill, which the sun at morn, The child had often thought; Toward that hill she turned her head, With hopeful visions fraught. Above the waving corn. "Ah, little lark, you sing," she said, In sweet, clear strains she sung a hymn, Until a pool of thick, soft mud, Across her pathway lay. "This is the Slough of Despond," she cried, Yet she bravely ventured thro' And safely reached the other side; But she lost one little shoe! THE LITTLE PILGRIM. On an old gray stone, she sate her down And ate some fruit and bread, Then took her little Bible out, And a cheering Psalm, she read. But she reached the bottom of the hill, She clamber'd up the steep ascent, "I'm glad at last the arbour's gone," Said the little tired soul, "I'm sure, I should have laid me down And lost my little roll." On the high hill-top she stands at last, A porter's lodge of ample size, Half hid by sheltering trees. She clapp'd her hands with joy, and cried, "Oh there's the Wicket Gate,' And I must seek admittance now, Before it is too late." Gently she knocked; 'tis answer'd soon, And at the open door, Stands a stout man, and Marian felt, As she never felt before. With tearful eyes, and trembling heart, "Oh yes I'm watchful," said the man, 107 108 THE LITTLE PILGRIM. I suppose you've lost your way, young miss, "Mistress," he cried to his wife, within, But I know some who want it more, 'Tis the finest in the land! Now we be come to the fine old porch,— Whilst I the servants call." Poor Marian's heart was cheer'd!- In accents soft and kind, "I'm sure you badly want some rest, And rest, you soon shall find." |