On the mountain's breezy summit, <br /> Where the southern sunbeams shine, <br />Aided by their warming vigor, <br /> Nature yields the golden wine. <br /> <br />How the wondrous mother formeth, <br /> None have ever read aright; <br />Hid forever is her working, <br /> And inscrutable her might. <br /> <br />Sparkling as a son of Phoebus, <br /> As the fiery source of light, <br />From the vat it bubbling springeth, <br /> Purple, and as crystal bright; <br /> <br />And rejoiceth all the senses, <br /> And in every sorrowing breast <br />Poureth hope's refreshing balsam, <br /> And on life bestows new zest. <br /> <br />But their slanting rays all feebly <br /> On our zone the sunbeams shoot; <br />They can only tinge the foliage, <br /> But they ripen ne'er the fruit. <br /> <br />Yet the north insists on living, <br /> And what lives will merry be; <br />So, although the grape is wanting, <br /> We invent wine cleverly. <br /> <br />Pale the drink we now are offering <br /> On the household altar here; <br />But what living Nature maketh, <br /> Sparkling is and ever clear. <br /> <br />Let us from the brimming goblet, <br /> Drain the troubled flood with mirth; <br />Art is but a gift of heaven, <br /> Borrowed from the glow of earth. <br /> <br />Even strength's dominions boundless <br /> 'Neath her rule obedient lie; <br />From the old the new she fashions <br /> With creative energy. <br /> <br />She the elements' close union <br /> Severs with her sovereign nod; <br />With the flame upon the altar, <br /> Emulates the great sun-god. <br /> <br />For the distant, happy islands <br /> Now the vessel sallies forth, <br />And the southern fruits, all-golden, <br /> Pours upon the eager north. <br /> <br />As a type, then,--as an image, <br /> Be to us this fiery juice, <br />Of the wonders that frail mortals <br /> Can with steadfast will produce!<br /><br />Friedrich Schiller<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/punch-song-to-be-sung-in-the-northern-countries/
