The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep;

He was the lov'd of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are drest

Above the noble slain :

He wrapt his colours round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one--o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd ;
She faded midst Italian flowers,--
The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who play'd

Beneath the same green tree;

Whose voices mingled as they pray'd

Around one parent knee!

They that with smiles lit up the hall,

And cheer'd with song the hearth,Alas! for love, if thou wert all, And nought beyond, oh, earth!

MOZART'S REQUIEM.

A short time before the death of Mozart, a stranger of remarkable appearance, and dressed in deep mourning, called at his house, and requested him to prepare a requiem, in his best style, for the funeral of a distinguished person. The sensitive imagination of the composer immediately seized upon the circumstance as an omen of his own fate; and the nervous anxiety with which he laboured to fulfil the task, had the effect of realizing his impression. He died within a few days after completing this magnificent piece of music, which was performed at his interment.

MOZART'S REQUIEM.

These birds of Paradise but long to flee

Back to their native mansion.

Prophecy of Dante.

A REQUIEM!--and for whom?

For beauty in its bloom?

For valour fall'n--a broken rose or sword?

A dirge for king or chief,

With pomp of stately grief,

Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplor'd?

Not so, it is not so!

The warning voice I know,

From other worlds a strange mysterious tone;

A solemn funeral air

It call'd me to prepare,

And my heart answer'd secretly-my own!

One more then, one more strain,

In links of joy and pain

Mighty the troubled spirit to inthral !

And let me breathe my dower

Of passion and of power

Full into that deep lay--the last of all!

The last!--and I must go

From this bright world below,

This realm of sunshine, ringing with sweet sound!

Must leave its festal skies,

With all their melodies,

That ever in my breast glad echoes found!

Yet have I known it long:

Too restless and too strong

Within this clay hath been th' o'ermastering flame;

Swift thoughts, that came and went,

Like torrents o'er me sent,

Have shaken, as a reed, my thrilling frame.