That glimmer through the night, to yonder plain.
Divided there, a hundred torrent streams,
Each plowing up its bed, roll dreadful on,
Resistless. Villages, and woods, and rocks,
Fall flat before their sweep. The region round,
Where myrtle-walks and groves of golden fruit
Rose fair; where harvest wav’d in all its pride;
And where the vineyard spread its purple store,
Maturing into nectar; now despoiled
Of herb, leaf, fruit and flower, from end to end