A Voice from the Wine Press

'T was for this they reared the vine,
Fostered every leaf and shoot,
Loved to see its tendrils twine,
And cherished it from branch to root!
'T was for this, that from the blast
It was screened and taught to run,
That its fruit might ripen fast,
O'er the trellis, to the sun.

And for this they rudely tore
Every cluster from the stem;
'T was to crush us till we pour
Out our very blood for them!
Well, though we are tortured thus,
Still our essence shall endure,
Vengeance they shall find, with us,
May be slow, but will be sure.

And the longer we are pent
From the air and cheering light,
Greater, when they give us vent,
For our rest shall be our might.
And our spirits, they shall see,
Can assume a thousand shapes;
These are words of verity,
Uttered by the dying grapes.

Many a stately form shall reel,
When our power is felt within;
Many a foolish tongue reveal
What the recent draught has been;
Many a thoughtless, yielding youth,
With his promise all in bloom,
Go from paths of peace and truth
To an early, shameful tomb.

We the purse will oft unclasp,
All its golden treasure take,
And, the husband in our grasp,
Leave the wife with heart to break.
While his babes are pinched with cold,
We will bind him to the bowl,
Till his features we behold
Glowing like a living coal.

We will bid the gown-man put
To his lip a glass or two,
Then, we'll stab him in the foot,
Till it oversteps the shoe.
And we'll swell the doctor's bill,
While he parries us in vain;
He may cure, but we will kill
Till our thousands we have slain.

When we've drowned their peace and health,
Strength and hopes within the bowl,
More we'll ask than life or wealth,
We'll require the very soul!
Ye, who from our blood are free,
Take the charge we give you now;
Taste not, till ye wait and see
If the grapes forget their vow.