Autumn

Autumn


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!