His ancient hills; Autumn, who now was wrung

By crafty ministers, sun, rain, and frost,

To don imperial pomp at any cost.

On each wild hill he reared his tents of war,

Flaunting barbaric standards wide and far,

Around which camp-fires of the red leaves raged:

His tottering state by flattering zephyrs paged,

Who, in a little fretful while, would soon

Work red rebellion under some wan moon:

Pluck his old beard, deriding; shriek and tear