Poems (Schiller)/The alpine horn
THE ALPINE HORN
The setting sun with crimson splendor gilds The icy rocks, and cliffs of Alpine heights;Its bright rays peer where the eagle builds His lonely nest, and flash a thousand lightsOf sparklingsilver o'er the mountain streams, While the trees catch the resplendent glowWhich from the regal, dying day-god beams, And stand transfigured to the gaze below.
How peaceful are these mountains! Solitude Hath claimed them for her kingdoms, here she reigns,Her calm unbroken by the noises rude That desecrate the stillness of the plains. The clouds so far above the vales below, Stretch down from heaven tender, kindly armsThat seem to circle 'round the peaks of snow, And veil, and shield them from the world's alarms.
Here on the sunny slopes the Alpine rose, Above the tufted mosses nods and gleams,Where in the quiet hours the cattle browse, Ne'er straying farther than the neighboring streams.All day the kine-bells' dreamy music sweeps Adown the mountain passes to the vales,But their melodious tinkle on the steeps, Grows faint and fainter as the daylight pales.
But hark! there peals from yon most lofty height Upon the sunset-hush a piercing sound,Startling the lammer-geyer to sudden flight, While the chamois up and away doth bound. But it is not the daring huntsman's horn, For he hath sought the hearth-fire of his home,Until the rosy flush of early morn Bids him away in the wild chase to roam.
It is the signal horn piping its praise, And now on every peak with one accord,The Senns' their cheery-trumpets quickly raise, And shout a loud response, "Praise ye the Lord!"Then all the treasure caverns 'mid the hills Catch the refrain, and the glad sound prolong,While every mountain echo raptly trills The trembling music of the shepherd's song.
When the last cadence dies on the still air, Each humble knee upon the turf is pressed,While every heart is raised in fervent prayer For God's protection thro' the hours of rest. O! scene sublime, can poet's dream transcend Its beauty; or the pencilings of art?Do not enraptured angels downward bend, And smile blessings on each lonely heart.
Their kind devotions finished, now again The trumpet's peal upon the twilight falls:A glad "Good-night" is piped by every Senn Before he seeks the shelter of his walls."Good-night," the rocks repeat, and the dells Flutter and tremble with the new-born sound;Among the tall tree branches loud it swells, Then falls and dies along the mossy ground.
Now to his hut each weary herdsman hies, And night's deep silence broods on all the hills,While slumber kindly veils the tired eyes From all the daylight's troubling ills; And the great God looks down through all the night On these, the children of His love and care,While to each peak bright spirits wing their flight, And guard the sleepers in the Senn huts there.