A semi-sacred poem by the Scottish Poet James Beattie.

The three part setting from Wyeth's Repository has been expanded into four parts for the Appendix of the 2005 Ingalls book.

The harmonies are lush too the point of being almost too rich! Bordering on classical at times. The altos here sing their part with a truly arresting power and beauty, Enjoy!

At the close of day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove.
'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,
While his harp rung symphonious, a Hermit began
No more with himself or with nature at war,
He thought as a Sage, though he felt as a Man.

'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;
I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, with glittering dew,
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;
Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save.
But when shall Spring visit the mouldering urn!
O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!

--James Beattie

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