There was no garden round the house,
And it was low and small-
The forest sward grew to the door,
The lichens on the wall.

There was no garden round about,
Yet flowers were growing free,
The cowslips and the daffodils,
Upon the forest lea.

The butterfly went flitting by,
The bees were in the flowers;
But the little child sate steadfastly,
As she had sate for hours.

'Why sit

little maid?

you here, my An aged pilgrim spake;

The child looked upward from her book, Like one but just awake.

Back fell her locks of golden hair,

And solemn was her look,

As thus she answered witlessly, 'O, sir, I read this book!'

'And what is there within that book
To win a child like thee?

Up! join thy mates the merry birds,
And frolic with the bee!'

'Nay, sir, I cannot leave this book,
I love it more than play;

I have read all legends, but this one
Ne'er saw I till this day.

' And there is something in this book
That makes all care be gone,
And yet I weep, I know not why,
As I go reading on!'

'Who art thou, child, that thou shouldst read A book with mickle heed?

Books are for clerks, the king himself

Hath much ado to read.'

'My father is a forester,
A bowman keen and good;

He keeps the deer within their bound,
And worketh in the wood.

'My mother died at Candlemas; The flowers are all in blow

Upon her grave at Allonby,

Down in the dale below.'

This said, unto her book she turned
As steadfast as before;

'Nay,' said the pilgrim, 'nay, not yet;
And you must tell me more..

'Who was it taught you thus to read?' 'Ah, sir, it was my mother; She taught me both to read and spell, And so she taught my brother.

'My brother dwells at Allonby
With the good monks alway;
And this new book he brought to me,
But only for one day.

'O, sir, it is a wondrous book, Better than Charlemagne ;

And, be you pleased to leave me now, I'll read in it again!'

'Nay, read to me!' the pilgrim said;
And the little child went on
To read of Christ, as was set forth
In the gospel of St. John.

On, on, she read, and gentle tears
Adown her cheeks did slide;
The pilgrim sate with bended head,
And he wept at her side.

'I've heard,' said he, the Archbishop,
I've heard the Pope of Rome;
But never did their spoken words
Thus to my spirit come;

'The book, it is a blessed book!
Its name, what may it be?'

Said she, 'They are the words of Christ
That I have read to thee,
Now done into the English tongue,
For folk unlearned as we.'

'Sancta Maria!' said the man,
'Our canons have decreed
That this is an unholy book
For simple folk to read.

'Sancta Maria! blessed be God!
Had the great book been mine,
I need not have gone on pilgrimage
To Holy Palestine.

'Give me the book, and let me read!
My soul is strangely stirred;
They are such words of love and truth
As ne'er before I heard!'

The little girl gave up the book,
And the pilgrim old and brown,
With reverent lips did kiss the page,
Then on the stone sat down.

And aye he read page after page,
Page after page he turned;
And, as he read their blessed words,
His heart within him burned.

Still, still, the book the old man read,

As he would ne'er have done;

From the hour of noon he read the book Unto the set of sun.

The little child she brought him out
A cake of wheaten bread;
But it lay unbroke at eventide,
Nor did he raise his head,
Until he every written page
Within the book had read.

Then came the sturdy forester
Along the homeward track,
Whistling aloud a hunting tune,
With a slain deer at his back.

Loud greeting gave the forester
Unto the pilgrim poor;

The old man rose with thoughtful brow,
And entered at the door.

The two they sate them down to meat,
And the pilgrim 'gan to tell

How he had eaten at Olivet,
And drank at Jacob's well.

And then he told how he had knelt
Where'er our Lord had prayed;
How he had in the garden been,
And the tomb where he was laid.