Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Sunset among the Alps

Sunset Among the Alps.

O Thou who hast Thine altar made On every mountain's brow;Whose temple is the forest's shade, Its arch the forest's bough;Thou hast ever listened when we prayed, And Thou wilt hear us now.

Full kingly is Thy royal grace On the wide world poured forth;From the sunny south, "in pride of place," To the icy-girded north,The glorious beauty of Thy face Doth shine upon the earth.

To each—to all—Thy bounty flows, Full, boundless, deep, and free;Thou hast flowers for earth, and stars for heaven, And gems for the blue sea;And for us our everlasting hills, And hearts which dauntless be.

More hast Thou given, O God, yet more Than our spirits true and bold,And our mighty mountain sentinels, Those watchers stern and old—The shadow of a glorious past Our memory doth enfold.

That little band of shepherd men Who left their flocks with Thee,And, strong in heart, went boldly forth To make our mountains free—Thy hand was with their steadfast worth, And they won the victory.

And they, the saints of later time, Who dwelt in places lone,And wandering exiles for their faith, Through toil and famine, fight and death,Their martyr crowns have won. 'Twas Thou preserved their fleeting breath,And they sit beneath Thy throne.

 Forsake us not, but as of oldSo let our spirits be, And give us still the courage boldTo keep our mountains free, And our ancestral faith to hold,Wherewith to worship Thee.

 The cattle on a thousand hills,The feeble and the small, We leave throughout the silent night,Nor fear lest harm befall; For Thou, who blest the patriarch's store,Wilt guard and keep them all.

 Praise from the mountain's lordly crest,Praise from the valley lone, For all our daily blessedness,For our bright ones who are gone, To Thee, the mightiest, wisest, best,The great Eternal One!