The Alpine Horn.

A poem by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

When rainbow hues of closing day
O'er evening's portals faintly play,
The Alpine horn calls far away,
"Praised be the Lord."

And every hill and rock around,
As though they loved the grateful sound,
Send back, 'mid solitudes profound,
"Praised be the Lord."

O God! has man so thankless grown,
He brings no anthems to thy throne,
When voiceless things have found a tone
To praise the Lord?

Ah no! for, see, the shepherds come,
Though hardly heard the welcome home;
From toil of day they quickly come
To worship God.

The look that taught their hearts to bow,
And childhood's laugh and sunny brow,
All, all by them forgotten now
In praise to God.

Kneeling the starry vault beneath,
With spirits free as air they breathe,
Oh, pure should be their votive wreath
Of praise to God.

How glorious such a scene must be,
When prayer and praise ascend to Thee
In one glad voice of melody,
Eternal Lord!

All space thy temple, and the air
A viewless messenger, to bear
Creation's holy vesper prayer
On wings to Heaven.

Oh, that for me some Alpine horn,
Both closing eve and wak'ning morn,
Would sound, and bid my bosom scorn
The world's vain joys;

Its treasured idols all resign,
That, when Life's cheating hues decline,
The one undying thought be mine,
To praise the Lord!

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