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others fought like men bereft of fear,)

      And while the cry, ‘Kill, kill,’ was in mine ears,

      The gutters ran, not so with blood as tears.

         Indeed, the captains did not always fight,

      But then they would molest us day and night;

      Their cry, ‘Up, fall on, let us take the town,’

      Kept us from sleeping, or from lying down.

         I was there when the gates were broken ope,

      And saw how Mansoul then was stripp’d of hope;

      I saw the captains march into the town,

      How there they fought, and did their foes cut down.

         I heard the Prince bid Boanerges go

      Up to the castle, and there seize his foe;

      And saw him and his fellows bring him down,

      In chains of great contempt quite through the town.

         I saw Emmanuel, when he possess’d

      His town of Mansoul; and how greatly blest

      A town his gallant town of Mansoul was,

      When she received his pardon, loved his laws.

         When the Diabolonians were caught,

      When tried, and when to execution brought,

      Then I was there; yea, I was standing by

      When Mansoul did the rebels crucify.

         I also saw Mansoul clad all in white,

      I heard her Prince call her his heart’s delight.

      I saw him put upon her chains of gold,

      And rings, and bracelets, goodly to behold.

         What shall I say?  I heard the people’s cries,

      And saw the Prince wipe tears from Mansoul’s eyes.

      And heard the groans, and saw the joy of many:

      Tell you of all, I neither will, nor can I.

      But by what here I say, you well may see

      That Mansoul’s matchless wars no fables be.

         Mansoul, the desire of both princes was:

      One keep his gain would, t’other gain his loss.

      Diabolus would cry, ‘The town is mine!’

      Emmanuel would plead a right divine

      Unto his Mansoul: then to blows they go,

      And Mansoul cries, ‘These wars will me undo.’

         Mansoul! her wars seemed endless in her eyes;

      She’s lost by one, becomes another’s prize:

      And he again that lost her last would swear,

      ‘Have her I will, or her in pieces tear.’

         Mansoul! it was the very seat of war;

      Wherefore her troubles greater were by far

      Than only where the noise of war is heard,

      Or where the shaking of a sword is fear’d;

      Or only where small skirmishes are fought,

      Or where the fancy fighteth with a thought.

         She saw the swords of fighting men made red,

      And heard the cries of those with them wounded:

      Must not her frights, then, be much more by far

      Than theirs that to such doings strangers are?

      Or theirs that hear the beating of a drum,

      But not made fly for fear from house and home?

         Mansoul not only heard the trumpet’s sound,

      But saw her gallants gasping on the ground:

      Wherefore we must not think that she could rest

      With them, whose greatest earnest is but jest:

      Or where the blust’ring threat’ning of great wars

      Do end in parlies, or in wording jars.

      Mansoul! her mighty wars, they did portend

      Her weal or woe, and that world without end:

      Wherefore she must be more concern’d than they

      Whose fears begin, and end the selfsame day;

      Or where none other harm doth come to him

      That is engaged, but loss of life or limb,

      As all must needs confess that now do dwell

      In Universe, and can this story tell.

         Count me not, then, with them that, to amaze

      The people, set them on the stars to gaze,

      Insinuating with much confidence,

      That each of them is now the residence

      Of some brave creatures: yea, a world they will

      Have in each star, though it be past their skill

      To make it manifest to any man,

      That reason hath, or tell his fingers can.

         But I have too long held thee in the porch,

      And kept thee from the sunshine with a torch,

      Well, now go forward, step within the door,

      And there behold five hundred times much more

      Of all sorts of such inward rarities

      As please the mind will, and will feed the eyes

      With those, which, if a Christian, thou wilt see

      Not small, but things of greatest moment be.

         Nor do thou go to work without my key;

      (In mysteries men soon do lose their way;)

      And also turn it right, if thou wouldst know

      My riddle, and wouldst with my heifer plough;

      It lies there in the window.  Fare thee well,

      My next may be to ring thy passing-bell.

John Bunyan.

      AN ADVERTISEMENT TO THE READER

         Some say the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’ is not mine,

      Insinuating as if I would shine

      In name and fame by the worth of another,

      Like some made rich by robbing of their brother.

      Or that so fond I am of being sire,

      I’ll father bastards; or, if need require,

      I’ll tell a lie in print to get applause.

      I scorn it: John such dirt-heap never was,

      Since God converted him.  Let this suffice

      To show why I my ‘Pilgrim’ patronize.

         It came from mine own heart, so to my head,

      And thence into my fingers trickled;

      Then to my pen, from whence immediately

      On paper I did dribble it daintily.

         Manner and matter, too, was all mine own,

      Nor was it unto any mortal known

      Till I had done it; nor did any then

      By books, by wits, by tongues, or hand, or pen,

      Add five words to it, or write half a line

      Thereof: the whole, and every whit is mine.

         Also for THIS, thine eye is now upon,

      The

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