For autumn’s glory throws its ripening beam
Upon the cluster’d vine, whose branches teem
With the rich fulness of the luscious prize,
Which each year gives to man, ere yet it dies.
The evening spreads its shadow over earth,
From ev’ry vineyard comes the sound of mirth;
High spring the fiery rockets into air,
And hearty shouts the vintage-time declare.
The ruddy fires illumine ev’ry hill,