NOON; and the wistful Autumn sat among

The lurid woodlands; chiefs who now were wrung

By crafty ministers, sun, wind and frost,

To don imperial pomp at any cost.

On each wild hill they stood as if for war

Flaunting barbaric raiment wide and far;

And burnt-out lusts in aged faces raged;

Their tottering state by flattering zephyrs paged,

Who in a little fretful while, how soon!

Would work rebellion under some wan moon;