STEIN WEIN.
To Sam Ward, our Sam Ward; the only original. All others, whether with middle names or not, are impostors.
Why should this wine, so full and fine, be called a wine of stone?
Can any sage explain me this? Has any mortal known?
Is it because the luscious draught a stony heart would move,
And make the miser generous and the misanthrope love?
Or is it that it gives the force and overpowering might
Which makes the Deutscher, like a rock, stand through the thickest fight?
Or call we it a precious stone, a very gem of drink,
A jewel bright in dusky case when glasses gaily clink?
Come, work it out by algebra, you all-accomplished man.
Or rhyme it out in goodly verse, if rhyme it out you can.
Or play it in a symphony of solemn swelling sound,
Or in the dozen tongues you speak the mystery expound,
We will not quarrel with the name, whatever first it meant,
But only think, as the wine we drink, 'tis worthy him who sent.
Encomium more exquisite could hardly be devised
Though one should take a week to tell how much the gift is prized.
And if my verse seem all too bad your good wine to repay,
I did the same to Longfellow. What is there more to say?