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Who would true valor see, Let him come hither! One here will constant be, Come wind, come weather; There's no discouragement Shall make him once relent His first-avowed intent To be a Pilgrim. Whoso beset him round With dismal stories, Do but themselves confound His strength the more is. No lion can him fright; He'll with a giant fight; But he will have a right To be a Pilgrim. Hobgoblin, nor foul fiend, Can daunt his spirit; He knows he at the end Shall Life inherit:— Then, fancies, fly away; He'll not fear what men say; He'll labor night and day, To be a Pilgrim. |