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Friedrich Schiller - Punch Song (To be sung in the Northern Countries)
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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 breast
Poureth hope`s refreshing balsam,
  And on life bestows new zest.

But their slanting rays all feebly
  On 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 offering
  On 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 fashions
  With creative energy.

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

For the distant, happy islands
  Now 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 mortals
  Can with steadfast will produce!
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