Analysis of In a Wine Cellar

SEE how it flashes,
   This grape-blood fine!—
Our beards it splashes,
   O comrade mine!—
Life dust and ashes
   Were, wanting wine.
Amontillado
   Fires heart and eyes;
Champagne the shadow
   Of care defies;
An El Dorado
   In Rhine-wine lies;

Port has the mintage
   Of generous deeds;
Tokay scorns stintage
   And richly bleeds;
But this great vintage
   The Wine-March leads.

Yet it is wanting
   In poesy;
No legends haunting
   Its vassals be,
No tales enchanting
   Of chivalry.

Spain’s grape hath stories;
   Its blood the bold
Conquistadores
   Drank deep of old—
A wine of glories,
   A wine of gold.

Who drinks not sparing,
   Beholdeth he
The great Cid bearing
   His banner free,
Columbus daring
   The unknown Sea,

And, haply biding,
   In this dream-Spain,
Don Quixote riding
   Across the plain,
His squire confiding
   Beside his rein.

The wine of France is
   Aglow to-day
With flash of lances,
   With feast and fray,
And dark-eyed glances
   Of ladies gay.

See where together,
   A flagon near,
Lie hat with feather,
   And long rapier—
Fine courting weather,
   O Cavalier!

Bright Rhenish, gleaming
   Moon-white! Perchance
Thy wave clear beaming
   Still guards Romance,
Not dead, but dreaming
   In spell-bound trance!

Not in Rhine-water,
   But Rhine-wine fair
Sir Rupert sought her
   (As bards declare)
The Rhine King’s daughter
   With golden hair.

Still ’neath its smiling
   Wave’s amber rings,
Men sweetly wiling
   From earthly things,
Her song beguiling
   The Loreley sings.

Your cup, wild siren,
   That Deutschland drains—
Her heart of iron
   Moved by your strains—
No blood shall fire in
   Australian veins;

Nor yours whose charm is
   Your topaz eyne,
Nor yours whose armies
   In gold caps shine,
Shall charm or harm us—
   Eh, comrade mine?

No vintage alien
   For thee or me!
Our fount Castalian
   Of poesy
Shall wine Australian,
   None other be.

Then place your hand in
   This hand of mine,
And while we stand in
   Her brave sunshine
Pledge deep our land in
   Our land’s own wine.

It has no glamour
   Of old romance,
Of war and amour
   In Spain or France;
Its poets stammer
   As yet, perchance;

But he may wholly
   Become a seer
Who quaffs it slowly;
   For he shall hear,
Though faintly, lowly,
   Yet sweet and clear,

The axes ringing
   On mountain sides,
The wool-boats swinging
   Down Darling tides,
The drovers singing
   Where Clancy rides,

The miners driving,
   The stockman’s strife;
All sounds conniving
   To tell the rife,
Rich, rude, strong-striving
   Australian life.

Once more your hand in
   This hand of mine!
And while we stand in
   The brave sunshine,
Pledge deep our land in
   Our land’s own wine!