"_Ut vinum cor hominis laetifloet._"
Lord, You who heard the prayer of Your divine
Mother, and gave Your guests that Cana wine,
Deign now to bless as well the vintage new,
Which cheers the heart of those who pray to you.
The breeze blew warm upon the flowering shoot,
And the sky coloured all the round, green fruit,
Which, guarded from oidium and lice,
Thrushes, phylloxera, and from dormice,
Ripened as You, O Lord, would have it be.
The tendril curled around the sapling tree,
And soon the shoots bent under sun-blue sheaves
With which September loads the crackling leaves.
Over the winepress sides the juice has run,
And, heavily fermenting, cracked the tun.
O Lord, we dedicate to You this wine,
Wherein is pent the spirit of the Rhine;
We vow to You the vintages of France,
Of the Moselle, Black Forest, of Byzance;
Cyprus, Marsala, Malaga, and Tent,
Malmsey, and Shiraz of the Orient;
That of the Gold Isles scented by the sea,
Sherry, Tokay, Thetalassomene;
Nectar of bishops and of kings, champagne;
The blue wine from the hill-sides of Suresnes;
The sour, white wine of Huy; Chateau Margaux,
Shipped to Your abbots world-wide from Bordeaux;
Oporto's wine that drives the fever out,
And gave to English statesmen rest and gout;
Lacryma Christi, Chateauneuf of Popes,
Grown, O good Lord, upon Avignon's slopes;
Whether in skins or bottles; those you quaff
With ceremonial face or lips that laugh;
Keep them still clear when cobwebs round them grow,
To make all world-sick hearts leap up and glow,
To lighten minds that carking cares oppress,
And yet not dimming them with drunkenness;
Put into them the vigour which sustains
Muscles grown flabby; and along the veins
Let them regenerate impoverished blood;
And bless the privileged pure wine and good,
Whose common, fragile colour, still unspiced,
Suddenly ceasing to be wine, O Christ,
Soon as the blest, transmuting word is said,
Perpetuates Your blood for sinners shed.