Set by Джон Митчел (1941-) op. 71 (1989), from Seven Journeys to Earth, part 4, no. 4.
Text by Эмили Бронте(Emily Brontë) (1818-1848)
Far away is the land of rest
Thousand miles are stretched between
Many a mountain's stormy crest
Many a desert void of green
Wasted worn is the traveller
Dark his heart and dim his eye
Without hope or comforter
Faltering faint and ready to die
Often he looks to the ruthless sky
Often he looks o'er his dreary road
Often he wishes down to lie
And render up life's tiresome load
But yet faint not mournful man
Leagues on leagues are left behind
Since your sunless course began
Then go on to toil resigned
If you still despair control
Hush its whispers in your breast
You shall reach the final goal
You shall win the land of rest
