The adopted daughter and other tales |
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| 51. | THE SPIRIT OF THE VINE. |
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 | The adopted daughter |  |
348
THE SPIRIT OF THE VINE.
BY JOHN WESLEY WHITFIELD.
I had a cup of wine,
'Twas the nectar of the vine,
Though rosy hue
'Twas clear as dew,
And brightly did it shine.
I sat me down to dine
Beside the “rosy wine;”
No friend was by,
And glad was I
To think the wine was mine.
I raised it to my lip,
So anxious I to sip,
I gave the cup a tip
When horror fill'd my soul;
Just judge of my surprise,
I saw a spirit's eyes
Within the guilty bowl.
“Why drink this blood of mine?”
Said the spirit of the vine
“To give it thee
They murder'd me
While dwelling by the Rhine.”
'Twas the nectar of the vine,
Though rosy hue
'Twas clear as dew,
And brightly did it shine.
I sat me down to dine
Beside the “rosy wine;”
No friend was by,
And glad was I
To think the wine was mine.
I raised it to my lip,
So anxious I to sip,
I gave the cup a tip
When horror fill'd my soul;
Just judge of my surprise,
I saw a spirit's eyes
Within the guilty bowl.
“Why drink this blood of mine?”
Said the spirit of the vine
“To give it thee
They murder'd me
While dwelling by the Rhine.”
349
“Just take the cup
And drink it up,
And anguish shall be thine!
'Twill rack and crack thy brain,
And fill thee full of pain;
'Twill make thee glad,
Then sad and mad
And anything but sane!”
How did my spirits sink,
I did not dare to drink;
I saw me on the brink
Of ruin's fearful steep.
That eye with angry glare,
Did say to me “beware!
O do not—do not dare
To take the fatal leap!”
I took the rosy wine
I laid it in the ground
Where the cheering sun could shine
Upon its modest mound;
And oft I think how nigh the brink
Of ruin I was found!
And drink it up,
And anguish shall be thine!
'Twill rack and crack thy brain,
And fill thee full of pain;
'Twill make thee glad,
Then sad and mad
And anything but sane!”
How did my spirits sink,
I did not dare to drink;
I saw me on the brink
Of ruin's fearful steep.
That eye with angry glare,
Did say to me “beware!
O do not—do not dare
To take the fatal leap!”
I took the rosy wine
I laid it in the ground
Where the cheering sun could shine
Upon its modest mound;
And oft I think how nigh the brink
Of ruin I was found!
| The adopted daughter | |