October scatters the torn vines around,
And the great floods their 'customed bounds break o'er;
Drowning the plains their shoreless waters pour,
Sweeping both bridge and bank in Spain's whole bound.
Moncayo, as of old, lifts up his crowned
High forehead of the snows; the sun no more
Than scarce appears, with day's half-portioned store,
When it is covered o'er with night profound.

The angry breath of tempests is abroad
Upon the seas and forests. Mankind hastes
Into his ports and cabins wisely awed;
Whilst Fabio by the Tays lingering wastes
His shamefaced tears, to mourn the sea-sons' fraud, —
The fruits that wither ere the lip half tastes.