Of sun-kissed marbles, on a shady stair,
Near which uprose a fountain’s liquid sheen,
Pan sought repose, and heard a minstrel tell
In plastic verse of Here’s potent spell;
VIII.
Which, on a mountain-couch of vernal flowers,
Lulled by its might the Thunderer to sleep,
Who lay, regardless of the ebbing powers
Of Ilion’s champion, locked in swoonings deep.
Here, while he sat, a sudden silence fell