"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, 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 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 merrily, 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 sang 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 bottom 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.