Where round a fountain’s brink
On silken carpets sat the festive train.
Instant, through all his frame
Delightful coolness spread;
The playing fount refresh’d
The agitated air;
The very light came cool through silvering panes
Of pearly shell, like the pale moonbeam tinged.
“I think I must stop here,” said Thompson, “though the entire book seems but the poet’s amplification of the tale of Mandeville.”
“The more I think on the subject, the more certain I feel that the Assassins of the eleventh century are the origin, if not of your tradition, at least of the tales of Purchas and Mandeville,” said Herbert.