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.
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."