C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

The Pilgrimage

By George Herbert (1593–1633)

I TRAVELED on, seeing the hill where lay

My expectation.

A long it was and weary way,

The gloomy cave of Desperation

I left on the one, and on the other side

The rock of Pride.

And so I came to Fancy’s meadow, strowed

With many a flower;

Fain would I here have made abode,

But I was quickened by my hour.

So to Care’s copse I came, and there got through

With much ado.

That led me to the wild of Passion, which

Some call the wold;

A wasted place, but sometimes rich.

Here I was robbed of all my gold,—

Save one good angel, which a friend had tied

Close to my side.

At length I got unto the gladsome hill

Where lay my hope,

Where lay my heart; and climbing still,

When I had gained the brow and top

A lake of brackish waters on the ground

Was all I found.

With that, abashed and struck with many a sting

Of swarming fears,

I fell, and cried, “Alas, my King!

Can both the way and end be tears?”

Yet taking heart, I rose, and then perceived

I was deceived.

My hill was farther; so I flung away,

Yet heard a cry

Just as I went,—“None goes that way

And lives.” “If that be all,” said I,

“After so foul a journey, death is fair,

And but a chair.”

- GENERAL INDEX - SONGS & LYRICS - QUICK INDEX - BIOGRAPHIES - READER’S DIGEST - STUDENT’S COURSE - PORTRAITS - BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD