The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
 | I, II. |
| III, IV. |
| V. |
| VI, VII. |
| VIII, IX. |
| X. |
 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
SONG.
“'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!” said the cup-loving boy,
As he saw it spring bright from the earth,
And call'd the young Genii of Wit, Love, and Joy,
To witness and hallow its birth.
The fruit was full grown, like a ruby it flamed
Till the sun-beam that kiss'd it look'd pale:
“'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!” ev'ry Spirit exclaim'd,
“Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!”
As he saw it spring bright from the earth,
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To witness and hallow its birth.
The fruit was full grown, like a ruby it flamed
Till the sun-beam that kiss'd it look'd pale:
“'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!” ev'ry Spirit exclaim'd,
“Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!”
First, fleet as a bird, to the summons Wit flew,
While a light on the vine-leaves there broke,
In flashes so quick and so brilliant, all knew
'Twas the light from his lips as he spoke.
“Bright tree! let thy nectar but cheer me,” he cried,
“And the fount of Wit never can fail:”
“'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!” hills and valleys reply,
“Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!”
While a light on the vine-leaves there broke,
In flashes so quick and so brilliant, all knew
'Twas the light from his lips as he spoke.
“Bright tree! let thy nectar but cheer me,” he cried,
“And the fount of Wit never can fail:”
“'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!” hills and valleys reply,
“Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!”
Next, Love, as he lean'd o'er the plant to admire
Each tendril and cluster it wore,
From his rosy mouth sent such a breath of desire,
As made the tree tremble all o'er.
Oh, never did flower of the earth, sea, or sky,
Such a soul-giving odour inhale:
“'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!” all re-echo the cry,
“Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!”
Each tendril and cluster it wore,
From his rosy mouth sent such a breath of desire,
As made the tree tremble all o'er.
Oh, never did flower of the earth, sea, or sky,
Such a soul-giving odour inhale:
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“Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!”
Last, Joy, without whom even Love and Wit die,
Came to crown the bright hour with his ray;
And scarce had that mirth-waking tree met his eye,
When a laugh spoke what Joy could not say;—
A laugh of the heart, which was echoed around
Till, like music, it swell'd on the gale;
“'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!” laughing myriads resound,
“Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!”
Came to crown the bright hour with his ray;
And scarce had that mirth-waking tree met his eye,
When a laugh spoke what Joy could not say;—
A laugh of the heart, which was echoed around
Till, like music, it swell'd on the gale;
“'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!” laughing myriads resound,
“Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!”
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |