At Sunset :: :: University of Virginia Library

Immortal Presence of the Beautiful!
Thee our attempted festivals invoke.
In Nature's chaos, passionless and dull,
Thy voice the spell of dark disorder broke.

Ev'n as thy fiat sowed the heavens with light,
Herald of glories—torch of worlds unknown,
Souls didst thou kindle, whose effulgent light
The lustre of thy rolling orbs outshone.

Our human hearts alternate day and night,
Hopes dawn, attain their noontide, and decline;
But when their flattering sun has spent his light,
From purple depths the steadfast spirits shine.

And we who thank for breath, and health, and sense,
Our great world-sphere, its beauties and its laws,
Bless most that ministry of life intense
Whose holy office knows nor rest nor pause.

We, whispering women, like an insect band
Chirping the vespers of the summer day,
Call with our simple music, poorly planned,
On a majestic soul, beloved for aye.

RECITAL

The Puritan was strict and lone.
He set his face, like flinty stone,
His will resolved and sturdy hand
To drive the demons from the land.

In his belief, the harmful Powers
That haunt this universe of ours
Had settled purpose, form, and face,
That ever warred with saintly grace.

The shots he aimed were good and true;
A thousand evil things they slew,
Yet other evil, springing still,
Brought torment to his manly will.

“Here Law and Logic rule,” he said,
“Yet Disbelief erects her head.
Sin grows apace, we work with pain,
The native demons still remain.”

A whisper from the upper air
Lightened with love that heavy care,

And bade on helpful errand start
Th' anointed chivalry of Art.

Supreme in that inspired band
Did Allston's genius bless the land,
Enthroning o'er the dark abyss
Transcendent forms of heavenly bliss.

Time flies away, with joys and pains;
His guardian presence still remains,
His noble fire, unquenched of death,
His sentence, passing human breath.

Those silvery curls, those lustrous eyes,
That deep regard, so kind and wise,
The habit quaint, the kindling smile
Seen in our frigid streets erewhile.

All these are lost, but not the dreams
With which his varied canvas gleams,
We lose not, with life's fleeting span,
The measure of the perfect man.

With reverence, on the tinted walls
That bear his trace, the sunlight falls;
The women that his fancy framed
Are never doubted, never shamed.

Where sits the wanton at his feast,
The Prophet's warning heeding least,
Recalling thee, his heart shall tell
How wild Belshazzar reigned, and fell.

Trimountain, crown the Master's grave!
Cherish the wondrous gifts he gave
Who, called to other spheres away
Bids yet his steadfast angels stay.