Those vine clad symbols of Pan's peaceful reign
Amidst dark pines their sacred seats possess'd.
XV.
Or, did it break with soft and silvery shower
The silence of some marble solitude,
Where Adrian, at the fire fly's glittering hour,
Of rumour'd worlds to come the doubts review'd?
Go mark his tomb!—in that sepulchral mole
Scowls the fell bandit:—from its towering height
Old Tiber's flood reflects the girandole,