As swarming to assail the pastoral bowl, With sound of stridulous wing, through summer sky, Or relics of a feast, their luscious dole, Repair the ready numbers of the fly;
As starlings to the vineyard's crimsoning pole With the ripe clusters charged, -- heaven's concave high Filling, as they advanced, with noise and shout, Fast hurried to the storm the Moorish rout.
