XCVII.
Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield
One glimpse—if dimly, yet indeed, reveal’d,
To which the fainting Traveler might spring,
As springs the trampled herbage of the field!
XCVIII.
Would but some winged Angel ere too late
Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate,
And make the stern Recorder otherwise
Enregister, or quite obliterate!