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.
