The Little Pilgrim

In a large old house, with two kind aunts,
 * The little Marian dwelt;

And a happy child she was, I ween,
 * For though at times she felt

That playmates would be better far
 * Than either birds or flowers,

Yet her kind old aunts, and story books,
 * Soothed many lonely hours.

Her favorite haunt, in the summer-time,
 * Was a large old apple-tree;

And oft amid the boughs she sat,
 * With her pet book on her knee.

The "Pilgrim's Progress" was its name,
 * And Marian loved it much;

It is, indeed, a glorious book,
 * There are not many such!

She read it in her little bed,
 * Beside the winter fire,

And in summer-time in the apple-tree,
 * As though she would never tire.

But, unexplained, 'tis just the book
 * To puzzle the young brain;

And the poor child had no kind friend,
 * Its meaning to explain.

For though her aunts were very kind,
 * They were not overwise,

And only said, "Don't read so, child,
 * I'm sure you'll spoil your eyes."

But Marian still went reading on,
 * And visions strange and wild

Began to fill the little head
 * Of the lonely, dreaming child;

For she thought that Christian and his wife,
 * And all their children too,

Had left behind their pleasant home,
 * And done what she must do.

"I'll take my Bible," said the child,
 * "And seek the road to heaven;

I'll try to find the Wicket Gate,
 * And hope to be forgiven.

I wish my aunts would go with me,
 * But 'tis in vain to ask;

They are so deaf and rather lame,
 * They'd think it quite a task.

No! I must go alone, I see,
 * So I'll not let them know;

Or, like poor Christian's friends, they'll say,
 * 'My dear, you must not go.'

But I must wait till some grand scheme
 * Can all their thoughts engage;

And then I'll leave my pleasant home,
 * And go on pilgrimage."

She had not waited long, before,
 * On 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 ill in bed.

"But, Marian, you must stay at home,
 * For 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."

A few more parting words were said,
 * And off the ladies went.

The servants, too, were all engaged;
 * "The day is come at last,"

Said Marian, "but oh, I wish,
 * My pilgrimage was past."

She knelt beside the apple-tree,
 * And for God's assistance prayed;

Then, with her basket in her hand,
 * Forth tripped the little maid.

Behind the house where Marian dwelt,
 * Far off in the distance, lay

A high steep hill, which the sun at morn
 * Tinged with its earliest ray.

"Difficulty" was its rightful name,
 * The child had often thought;

Towards this hill she turned her steps,
 * With hopeful visions fraught.

The flowers seemed to welcome her,
 * 'Twas a lovely autumn morn,

The little lark sang marrily,
 * Above the waving corn.

"Ah, little lark, you sing," said she,
 * "On your early pilgrimage;

I, too, will sing, for pleasant thoughts
 * Should now my mind engage."

In clear sweet strains she sung a hymn,
 * And tripped lightly on her way;

Until a pool of soft thick mud
 * Across her pathway lay.

"This is the Slough of Despond," she cried,
 * But she bravely ventured through;

And safely reached the other side,
 * But she lost one little shoe.

On an old gray stone she sat her down,
 * To eat some fruit and bread;

Then took her little Bible out,
 * And a cheering psalm she read.

Then with fresh hope she journeyed on,
 * For many miles away;

And she reached the bottomm of the hill,
 * Before the close of day.

She clambered up the steep ascent,
 * Though faint and weary too;

But firmly did our Marian keep
 * Her purpose still in view.

"I'm glad, at least, the arbor's past,"
 * Said the little tired soul;

"I'm sure I should have sat me down,
 * And lost my little roll!"

On the high hill-top she stands at last,
 * And our weary Pilgrim sees

A porter's lodge, of ample size,
 * Half hid by sheltering trees,

She clapped her hands with joy, and cried,
 * "Oh, there's the Wicket Gate,

And I must seek admittance there,
 * Before it is too late."

Gently she knocks--'tis answered soon,
 * And at the open door

Stands a tall, stout man--poor Marian felt
 * As she ne'er had felt before.

With tearful eyes, and trembling hand,
 * Flushed cheek, and anxious brow,

She said, "I hope you're Watchful, Sir,
 * I want Discretion now."

"Oh yes, I'm watchful," said the man,
 * "As a porter ought to be;

I s'pose you've lost your way, young Miss,
 * You've lost your shoe, I see.

"Missus," he cried to his wife within,
 * Here's a child here, at the door,

You'll never see such a one again,
 * If you live to be fourscore.

She wants discretion, so she says,
 * Indeed I think 'tis true;

But I know some who want it more,
 * Who will not own they do."

"Go to the Hall," his wife replies,
 * "And take the child with you,

The ladies there are all so wise,
 * They'll soon know what to do."

The man complied, and led the child
 * Through many a flowery glade;

"Is that the Palace Beautiful?"
 * The little Pilgrim said,

"There, to the left, among the trees?
 * Why, Miss, 'tis might grand;

Call it a palace, if you please,
 * 'Tis the finest in the land.

Now we be come to the fine old porch,
 * And this is the Marble Hall;

Here, little lady, you must stay,
 * While I the servants call."

Tired and sad he left the child,
 * But he quickly re-appeared,

And with him the lady of the house--
 * Poor Marian's heart was cheered.

"Sweet little girl," the lady said,
 * In accents soft and kind,

"I'm sure you sadly want some rest,
 * And rest you soon shall find."

To a room where three young ladies sat,
 * The child was quickly led;

"Piety, Prudence, and Charity,"
 * To herself she softly said.

"What is your mane, my little dear?"
 * Said the eldest of the three,

Whom Marian, in her secret thought,
 * Had christened Piety.

"We'll send a servant to your friends,
 * How uneasy they must be!"

Admiringlly she watched the child,
 * Who, indeed, was fair to see;

Around her bright and lovely face
 * Fell waves of auburn hair.

As modestly she told her name,
 * With whom she lived and where.

"How did you lose your way, my love?"
 * She gently raised her head,

"I do not think I've lost my way,"
 * The little Pilgrim said.

"This is the Palace Beautiful,
 * May I stay here to-night?"

They smiled and said, "We're glad our house
 * Finds favor in your sight:--

"Yes, gladly will we keep you here,
 * For many nights to come."

"Thank you," said Marian, "but I soon
 * Must seek my heavenly home.

The valley of the Shadow of Death
 * Is near this house, I know"--

She stopped, for she saw, with great surprise,
 * Their tears began to flow.

She little thought the mourning dress,
 * Which all the ladies wore,

Was for one whom they had dearly loved,
 * And should see on earth no more.

Their brother had been called away,
 * Their brightest and their best;

No wonder, then, that Marian's words
 * Roused grief in every breast.

Sobs only for awhile were heard;
 * At length the ladies said,

"My, love, you have reminded us
 * Of our loved and early dead;

But this you could not know, my dear,
 * And it indeed is true;

We are all near to Death's dark door,
 * Even little girls like you."

"Yes," said the timid, trembling child,
 * "I know it must be so;

But, ma'am, I hope that Piety
 * May be with me when I go.

And will you show me your armory,
 * When you have time to spare?

I hope you have some small enough
 * For a little girl to wear."

No more she said, for Piety,
 * As Marian called her, cast

Her arms around the Pilgrim's neck,
 * The secret's out at last.

"You puzzled all," said Piety;
 * "But now, I see, you've read

A glorious book, which, unexplained,
 * Has turned your little head.

"Oh, dearly, when I was a child,
 * I loved that Pilgrim Tale;

But then mamma explained it well--
 * And if we can prevail

On your kind aunts to let you stay
 * Some time with us, my dear,

You shall read that book with my mamma,
 * And she will make it clear."

Now we'll return to Marian's home,
 * And see what's passing there.

The servants all had company,
 * And a merry group they were.

They had not missed our Pilgrim long,
 * For they knew she oft would play

In that old garden, with a book,
 * The whole of the livelong day.

"Betty," at last, said the housekeeper,
 * "Where can Miss Marian be?

Her dinner was in the basket packed,
 * But, sure, she'll come into tea!"

They sought her here, they sought her there,
 * But they could not find the child;

And her poor ould aunts, when they came home,
 * With grief were almost wild.

The coachman and the footman too,
 * In different ways were sent;

But none thought of the narrow way
 * In which the Pilgrim went.

"Perhaps she followed us to town,"
 * Poor Aunt Rebecca said,

"I wish we had not left our home;
 * I fear the child is dead."

And to the town the coachman went,
 * For they knew not what to do;

And night drew on, when a country boy
 * Brought Marian's little shoe.

With the shoe in her hand, the housekeeper
 * Into the parlor ran,

"Oh, Mistress, here is all that's left
 * Of poor Miss Marian.

It was found sticking in the mud,
 * Just above Harlem Chase;

I fear the poor child's perished there,
 * For 'tis a frightful place."

Then louder grew the ladies' grief;
 * But soon their hearts were cheered,

When a footman grand, with a note in his hand,
 * From the distant Hall appeared.

Aunt Ruth now read the note, and cried,
 * "Oh, sister, all is well!

The child is safe at Brookland Hall,
 * With Lady Arundel,

Who wants to keep her for a month;
 * Why, yes; I think she may--

Such friends as Lady Arundel
 * Are not met with every day.

"Our compliments, and thanks to her,
 * When you return, young man;

We'll call to-morrow at the Hall,
 * And see Miss Marian."

Then came a burst of grateful joy,
 * That could not be suppressed,

And, with thankful hearts and many tears,
 * The ladies went to rest.

We'll take a peep at our Marian now,
 * There in her bed lies she;

How blissful were her dreams that night,
 * In the arms of Piety.

Oh, that happy month at Brookland Hall,
 * How soon it passed away!

Cheerful and good were Marian's friends,
 * And who so kind as they?

And, more than all, while there she stayed,
 * They did their best to bring

The little lamb to that blest fold
 * Where reigns the Shepherd King.

For many a lesson ne'er forgot,
 * The little Marian learned;

And a thoughtful and a happier child
 * She to her home returned.

Years rolled away, the scene has changed,
 * A wife and mother now,

Marian has found the Wicket Gate,
 * She and her children too.

And oh! how sweet it is to see
 * This littel Pilgrim band,

As on towards their heavenly home,
 * They travel hand in hand.

When cloudy days fall to their lot,
 * They see a light afar,

The light that shone on Bethlehem's plain,
 * The Pilgrim's guiding star.

And now, dear children, whosoe'er,
 * Or whereso'er you be,

Who ponder o'er this strange, true tale
 * Of Marian's history,--

If to the flowers of your young hearts,
 * Instruction's dews are given,

Oh! be earnest as our Marian was,
 * To find the road to Heaven.