When summer strews its beauty o'er those hills,
Basking in sunsine 'neath the radiant skies,
When clinging vines with ripened fruit are filled,
Crowning their home with green as they arise;
Amid the undimmed beauty that doth clothe
The hill and vale,—still at day's close is heard
From the high chalet on the towering cliffs,
That worship tone, whose echoes Praise the Lord.
At that calm hour shepherd hears the sound,—
Enfolded are his lambs in pastures fair—
His heart re-echoes every welcome word,
And now his murmured praise is on the air.
The weary hunter in his homeward walk,
Flings down the chamois when that strain is heard,
And with his knee upon the fragrant turf,
Joins in the jubilant, "Praised be the Lord."
Oh, Alpine horn—with praise perpetual thou,
I would my heart might echo back thy notes,
Ascending to the Great White Throne on high,
To mingle with the praise that round it floats.
I would that as each day doth pass away,
And sunset flings its banner o'er the sky,
My voice might in a blessed tribute rise,
To Him, who reigns the Lord of all, on high.
