Alcino

Have ye the fury of the wind beheld, When down the rough Sierra's crags it shoots, How it hurls down the reverend rocks of eld, And tears the quivering pines up by the roots, Nor thus content, how with its pride upswelled, It loudly with the frightful sea disputes? Less fierce this rage is of the wind-borne Jove, Than Phyllis angry at Alcino's love.