T HE breeze is somewhat cooler growing, The flowers less scent unfold— But see!—the luscious grape is growing With purple or with gold. Now drain we up The social cup, When music blithe invites us— Though Winter threatens from afar Our present mirth he shall not mar, While Autumn still delights us. Yes! Autumn brings the best of pleasures, With grape and garnered corn— And lays in stores of future treasures To glad the year unborn. What need we dread, When wine and bread God's bounteous hand hath given? Oh! rather let our voices raise, In fervent hope and humble praise, A grateful hymn to Heaven!
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