Classic Poem

I sing the vine, — the western vine,
The newly found, but not unsung;
Whose magic to the minstrel's tongue,
Made music flow through every line.
Within its mellow amber deeps,
A mild and soothing spirit dwells,
As innocent as that which sleeps
In Poesy's Castalian wells;
Then bless the wine, the mellow wine,
That flows from the Catawba vine.

From east to west this vine shall spread,
Embowering all our vales and hills
And half of all our daily ills
Shall vanish where its light is shed;
The fields are joyous where it grows;
It makes the rugged hillsides glad,
And where, with vines the porch is clad,
There dwells the spirit of repose.
Then bless the wine, the mellow wine,
That flows from the Catawba vine.

The fiends that lurk in burning draughts,
Shall no more poison cups of ours;
But when with us young Bacchus laughs,
O'ershadowed by our vineyard bowers,
The god shall think his cup is filled
With honey-dew, at morn distilled
By Flora, from her purest flowers.
Then bless the wine, the mellow wine,
That flows from the Catawba vine.

Oh, tell us not, ye over-wise,
That God his choicest fruit has banned;
Those clusters from the Promised Land,
Were welcome to the prophet's eyes.
Let him who would dilute his blood
With water at the festive board,
Remember how the crystal flood
Was turned to purple by our Lord.
Then bless the wine, the mellow wine,
That flows from the Catawba vine.

And yet, beneath these glorious skies,
A nobler Vine o'ereaches all;
In its support, or in its fall,
A mighty nation lives or dies;
Its boughs are weighed with Freedom's fruit,
Beyond the hungry fox's reach,
With sturdy shoulders, each to each,
Come, let us guard it branch and root!
And bless the wine, the sacred wine,
That flows from our great Union vine.