The Alpine Horn | AdventAI

Publishing Committee · Battle Creek, Mich. · Oct 22, 1857

The Alpine Horn.

This horn is an instrument formed of the bark of the wild cherry that grows among the Alps. It is of great importance to the Alpine shepherd, as it is used as a kind of speaking trumpet, and can be heard to a very great distance. Just about the time when the sun gilds with his rays the everlasting snow on the high cliffs of the mountains, the adventurous shepherd, who has built his little chalet highest on the dizzy crags, blows a shrill blast, and repeats through his horn, “Praised be the Lord!” And the hunters who dwell around utter it again, and it is caught up and prolonged by the little valleys below. The huge piles of snow send back the solemn echo until all who hear it pause in awe.

How simple, yet sublime! The hunter, when he returns at eve, wearied with the chase, repeats those loving, worshiping words, “Praised be the Lord!” When fairy-footed Spring treads on those wintry heights and melts the snow-wreaths from their brow, then, thankful for the light-eyed visitant, the Alpine horn rings clear and loud, “Praised be the Lord!” And when merry vine-clad Summer follows, breathing beauty upon those wild summits, and causing the hardy flower to blossom so sweetly in its mountain home, then in calm peacefulness the Alpine horn is heard. Winter, too, may rear his fairy palaces of cold, bright, transparent crystal, and prison the gushing streams in magic boundaries, and spread a vale of mist and snow over the crushed and withered flowers; then the hunter follows the free, wild chamois, and, returning successful, repeats in gladness, “Praised be the Lord!”

The following lines were suggested by this beautiful custom:

THE ALPINE HORN.

When varying hues of parting day O'er evening 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 'midst solitudes profound, Praised be the Lord!

Just heaven! has man so thankless grown He brings no anthem to thy throne, When voiceless things have found a tone, To praise the Lord!

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

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

How lovely 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 universal prayer On wings to heaven.

O! that for once some Alpine horn Both closing eye and waking 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!