Young Faintheart lay on a wayside bank,
Full prey to doubts and fears,
When he did espy come trudging by
A Pilgrim bent with years.
His back was bowed and his step was slow,
But his faith no years could bend,
As he eagerly pressed to the rose-lit west
And the Land of Rainbow's-End.
"_It's ho, for a pack!" sang the Pilgrim gray,_
"_And a stout oak staff for friend,_
_And it's over the hills and far away_
_To the Land of Rainbow's-End!_"
"Thou'rt old," young Faintheart cried, "thou'rt old,
And there's many a league to go;
And still thou seekest the pot of gold
At the farther end of the bow."
"I am old, I am old," said the Pilgrim gray,
"But ever my way I'll wend
To the rose-lit hills of the dying day
And the Land of Rainbow's-End."
"Come, rest thee, rest thee by my side;
Give o'er thy doomsday quest."
"Have done, have done!" the Pilgrim cried:
"The light wanes in the west.
The road is long, but I shall not tire;
I will lay my bones, God send,
By the beautiful City of Heart's Desire,
In the Land of Rainbow's-End."
"_Then it's ho, for a pack!" sang the Pilgrim gray,_
"_And a stout oak staff for friend,_
_And it's over the hills and far away_
_To the Land of Rainbow's-End._"