These from the river back are lustrous thrown,
Those by the rocks repeated thunder on.
Thus is the grape-god welcom’d to his throne.
And Bacchus rules, in vintage-time, alone.
With sounds like these the great harvest of the year is ushered in. Rejoicing and merriment rule all hearts; the voice breaks forth in song, and the dance is followed by unwearied feet. Every thought for months past has been directed to the vine. Other harvests have been stored, with thankfulness, but the vintage has ever been the great subject of conversation in every cottage and at every well. The tedious watches are at an end, for, thickly clustered on every tree, the grapes are ready for the gatherer’s hand.
Our river is now more beautiful than ever: the panorama at our feet is gorgeous with crimson and gold; groups of children pile the grapes into the baskets; boats, laden with the rich treasure, are passing to and fro; and from them we hear the voices of the rowers, which, re-echoing from the rocks, roll away into distance, filling the great valley with songs of happiness:—
From the Mosel’s clust’ring hills
Freely flows the sparkling wine;
Midst them cooling water-rills,
Through the greenwoods pleasant shine.