An English Autumn, though it hath no vines,

Blushing with Bacchant coronals along

The paths o'er which the far festoon entwines

The red grape in the sunny lands of song,

Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines;[MJ]The Claret light, and the Madeira strong.

If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her,

The very best of vineyards is the cellar.