THE LAND OF RAINBOW'S-END

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.”