Classic Poem

At Weinsberg, town well known to fame,
That doth from " Wine " derive its name,
Where songs are heard of joy and youth,
Where stands the fort, hight " Woman's Truth " —
Where Luther e'en, 'mid women, song,
And wine would find the time not long —
And might perchance find room to spare
For Satan and an ink-horn there;
(For there a host of spirits dwell) —
Hear what at Weinsberg once befel.

The watchman, seeing all was right,
Commenced his round upon the night
Wherein one year exhausted dies,
And straight another year doth rise.
The clock proclaimed that moment near,
The watchman 'gan his throat to clear,
When, 'twixt the warning and the stroke,
Just as the day and year awoke,
He hears a crash that makes him start;
The house before him falls apart;
The wall dissolves — within doth seem,
Firm fixed on high, a winepress-beam;
Around it dance with shouts of glee
A mixed and noisy company;
While from the pipes all purple bright
Rich must, out-flowing, seeks the light.
The songs like mill-wheels' hum resound,
Whose paddles streams of wine drive round.
The watchman knows not what to do,
He turns him round the hills to view;
When lo! tho' hid the town in night,
The hill-side gleams with noonday light.
The golden sun of autumn shines
Around the rich luxuriant vines;
Fair troops who cut the vines are seen,
Half-hidden by the foliage green.
Some through the rows ripe clusters bear
In baskets large up-piled in air.
He scarce, for foam that spurts o'erhead,
Can see the boys the grapes that tread.
Blithe songs and jests are echoed back,
The lath-swords clash, the pistols crack;
Soon fades the setting sun's soft light;
Then fiery sheaves burst out to sight,
From whence unnumbered sparkles fly,
Flung upward tow'rd the evening sky.
Just then, within the gray church-tower
The hammer strikes the midnight hour.
The songs are hushed, fades every ray,
Winepress and vines are whisked away,
And from the chamber-window dark
Glimmers a lamp's expiring spark.
As was his wont, in tones full clear,
The watchman straight proclaims the year;
Though, 'midst his cries, his lips at times
Pour forth a store of honeyed rimes,
Wherein aloud he gladly tells
Of all these strange surprising spells;
For when the phantom-winepress hums,
A plenteous vintage always comes.

A hand doth on his shoulders light,
It is no spectre's of the night;
A boon-companion, void of faith,
O'ertakes him, shakes his head, and saith:
" Your winepress yielded must, I fear,
Not of the new — but olden year! "