And with a voice of thunder bellows loud
O'er the slow pool, that scarcely creeps along
Through sedge, and weedy ooze: but nathless he,
On the lone margent, pour'd his love-sick song,
And charm'd Hell's monsters with his minstrelsy.
Cocytus scowl'd,—but grinn'd a ghastly smile,
Albeit unused to the relenting mood:
Cerb'rus, three-mouth'd, stopp'd short,—and paused the while,
Low-crouching, list'ning, (for the sounds were good)
Silent his throat of flame, his eyes of fire