in 1825 in German, in a poem of fourteen stanzas, by Wilhelm Müller, father of Professor Max Müller.[39] It has also been excellently rendered in English verse by an American poetess whose name the efforts of the writer have been unable to trace: "Men have ridden for love, And men have ridden for gold, And men have ridden for honour In the chivalrous days of old. Little of love recked he, Nor honour, nor golden store, But the Abbot would ride for dinner, And he rode for good wine more. 'I will travel the world, Travel the world in quest-- Taste red, white, and yellow,' Cried this jolly old fellow, 'Till I find the wine that is best.' _Vanitas vanitorum!_ "'My servant leal,' said he, 'Now ride thou on before, And drink where'er the branches Hang withering at the door. Then, if the wine be worthy, That I should stop at all, Write "est"--but if it is not, Write "non" upon the wall.' "Promptly rode the man, In hamlet, city, and town, _Albergo_ and _osteria_, He gulped the good wine down. Where'er the wine was worthy There they slept or dined,-- Before, the trusty varlet, The lazier monk behind. "Among the hills and valleys, Festooned with wreathing vine, Where purple grapes and opal Drop red and golden wine, There is a wine delicious In a hamlet little known, With a taste like the mountain flower That blooms in spring alone. Here pause, O wandering Abbot! Thy ponderous frame can rest, Lo! the prudent, observant, Intelligent servant Has written here 'Est, Est, Est.' "The Abbot he drank at dinner, The Abbot he drank at night, And he called for more _fiasci_ When dawned the morning light. He murmured, 'I go no farther, _Per Bacco!_ I cease my quest; Wine of Hymettus sweetness, Nectar of gods,--_est, est_! "But even an Abbot has limits, Though his were exceeding wide; He passed them and, as you can fancy, Dropped from the table and died: Drowned as it were in the nectar, Dead of the wine that is best, In his hand the empty wine-cup, His last words '_Est, est, est_!' _Vanitas vanitorum!_ "This very same wine we are drinking To-night in classic Rome, Sipping it after dinner In our quiet foreign home. I have told as I heard the story, And now the white wine that is best, Let us all fill a bowl of-- Here's peace to the soul of The monk of the _Est, Est, Est_!"