Classic Poem

“Oh, Pilgrim, Pilgrim, pause awhile,
Footsore and faint art thou,
I read thee gentle by thy smile,
And by thy patient brow.
The cross beams broadly on thy breast,
Thy robe is soil'd and rent,
Where have thy weary footsteps prest?
And whither are they bent?”

“Oh, I have walk'd thro' a strange country,
And strange things have I seen,
And deadlier strife by land or sea,
Good brother, hath not been.
My robe was all as the lily white,
When first I wander'd forth,
The red cross on my breast was bright
As stars in the frosty north.

“And high the banner of our King
Flow'd o'er our pilgrim band,
But the long way was wearying,
And dark the gloomy strand.
And we must pass that fearful place
To find our Father's home,
And meet the fierce foes, face to face,
That thro' that strange land roam.

“All night dim murmurs fill'd the air,
And when the bright day broke
It seem'd that wild flowers, strangely fair,
Around our pathway woke;
But when we touch'd, their leaves were soil'd,
And scentless all their bowers,
And the green serpent slumbering coil'd
Amid their fairest flowers.

“Large birds flapp'd o'er us as we walk'd
Their wings of various dyes,
And evil beasts around us stalk'd,
With grim and fiery eyes.
Fiercely the grisly monsters came,
But we did never flinch;
But stood our ground, in our Master's name,
And quell'd them inch by inch.

“But hard won was the victory,
And many a wound we bore.”
“Good Pilgrim, of thy courtesy,
Where lies that fearful shore?
For I would brave the fiercest strife
For that dear Master's right.
I'd give whole years of this dull life
For one such glorious fight.”

“Oh Christian Brother, every day
Such foes around thee stand,
They fill thy path, they throng thy way,
In this our English land.
Bad thoughts, bad tempers, dreams of earth,
The small unnoticed sin,
Sit by the board and haunt the hearth,
To tempt thy soul within.

“And anger shrieks into thine ear,
And passion hears the cry,
And swelling envy lurketh near,
And pride goes prancing by,
And flowers of ease that seem to bless,
Spring round with specious art,
And the green serpent, selfishness,
Lies coil'd around thy heart.

“Oh Christ's true warrior, these are they
'Gainst whom to gird the sword,
To teach thy proud soul to obey,
Like Him thy lowly Lord;
To watch, to yield, when others press,
To struggle, to deny,
In patience, peace, and gentleness,
Must be thy triumph high.”