Punch Song (To Be Sung in Northern Countries.)

On the mountain's breezy summit,Where the southern sunbeams shine,Aided by their warming vigor,Nature yields the golden wine.

How the wondrous mother formeth,None have ever read aright;Hid forever is her working,And inscrutable her might.

Sparkling as a son of Phoebus,As the fiery source of light,From the vat it bubbling springeth,Purple, and as crystal bright;

And rejoiceth all the senses,And in every sorrowing breastPoureth hope's refreshing balsam,And on life bestows new zest.

But their slanting rays all feeblyOn our zone the sunbeams shoot;They can only tinge the foliage,But they ripen ne'er the fruit.

Yet the north insists on living,And what lives will merry be;So, although the grape is wanting,We invent wine cleverly.

Pale the drink we now are offeringOn the household altar here;But what living Nature maketh,Sparkling is and ever clear.

Let us from the brimming goblet,Drain the troubled flood with mirth;Art is but a gift of heaven,Borrowed from the glow of earth.

Even strength's dominions boundless'Neath her rule obedient lie;From the old the new she fashionsWith creative energy.

She the elements' close unionSevers with her sovereign nod;With the flame upon the altar,Emulates the great sun-god.

For the distant, happy islandsNow the vessel sallies forth,And the southern fruits, all-golden,Pours upon the eager north.

As a type, then,--as an image,Be to us this fiery juice,Of the wonders that frail mortalsCan with steadfast will produce!