LXII.

In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring Of living water from the centre rose, Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, ALI reclined, a man of war and woes:[160] Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, While Gentleness her milder radiance throws[161] Along that agéd venerable face, The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace.