The vintage time is gone, but not its glory;
The grapes are garnered from their leafy gloom;
Yet miles of vineyards, story crowning story,
Cover the hillsides with a golden bloom.

The vine-clad terraces descend the mountains
Like cascades rippling with resplendent gold;
Steeped in the sun, and fed by sweet-voiced fountains,
Tyrolean slopes a paradise unfold.

Above the vines the mountain sides are blending
The oaks' and maples' multicolored glow,
In variegated zones their hues ascending
From radiant roses to eternal snow.

Now here, now there, through brilliant foliage peeping,
A ruined castle seeks its walls to hide,—
High on some lonely crag in silence sleeping,
Left centuries since by history's ebbing tide.

In sparkling foam the beryl-colored river
Laughs in the sunshine between tinted walls;
While on the cliffs the scarlet creepers shiver,
Chilled by the breeze, as sunset's shadow falls.

Still in the valley Summer reigns victorious,
Though Winter's silvery sheen creeps slowly down;
Land of the vine and snow, at all times glorious,
In Autumn wearest thou thy fairest crown.