Classic Poem

TO BE SUNG IN THE NORTH.

On the slopes of lofty mountains
Where the long-drawn Summers shine,
By the generous radiance quickened,
Nature bears the golden vine.

Her mysterious operations
Are concealed from mortal sight,
Her intention is unfathomed,
And inscrutable her might.

Sparkling like a son of morning,
Flashing like a fiery stream,
From the cask the liquor rushes
Crystal clear, with ruddy gleam.

It rejoices all the senses,
And the timid heart inspires;
Calm and soothing hopes induces,
Strengthens life with new desires.

In our Northern clime the sunbeams
Spiritless and slanting lie;
Leaves indeed they tinge with colour,
But the fruit they cannot dye.

Yet the North must live — and living,
Life with pleasure must combine;
How then solve the knotty problem,
Grapeless, to dispose of wine?

Pale and feeble is the liquor
We laboriously prepare;
That which Nature's soul provideth
Sparkles ever bright and fair.

Let us gaily drain the goblet,
Even though the wine be sad;
Art itself, which came from heaven,
Once an earthly being had.

All the majesty of power
Is enlisted on her side;
With her own creative spirit
She can new from old provide.

By her overwhelming forces
Elements apart are riven,
And her artificial altar
Emulates the light of heaven.

To the happy favoured islands
Far away, the bark she steers,
And the fruits of Southern regions
Carries to our Northern spheres.

Let us see an allegory
In this rich, inspiring juice: —
Given will, and given power,
What can mortal not produce?