“My mother died in 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. “Oh, 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 folks unlearn’d as we!” “Sancta Marie!” said the man, Our canons have decreed That this is an unholy book For simple folks to read! “Sancta Maria! Bless’d be God! Had this good 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 stirr’d;-- 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 turn’d; And as he read their blessed words His heart within him burn’d. 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 on his back. Loud greeting gave the forester Unto the pilgrim poor; The old man rose with thoughtful brow, And enter’d at the door. The two had sate them down to meat, And the pilgrim ’gan to tell How he had eaten on Olivet, And drank at Jacob’s well.