And fast his steed flies o’er the ground;
For men who but an hour before
Were faint and weak, are weak no more!
Who knows what mortals can endure,
When hope leads on, and help is sure?
XXXIX.
’Tis reach’d at length—the blessed spot!
But son and father heed it not.
O’er one oblivion’s wing is spread,
And one is numbered with the dead: