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 inter ment. 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. Like perfumes on the wind, Which none may stay or bind, The beautiful comes floating thro' my I strive with yearnings vain, The spirit to detain soul; Of the deep harmonies that past me roll! Therefore disturbing dreams Trouble the secret streams And founts of music that o'erflow my breast; Something far more divine Than may on earth be mine, Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me rest. Shall I then fear the tone That breathes from worlds unknown? Surely these feverish aspirations there Shall grasp their full desire, And this unsettled fire, Burn calmly, brightly, in immortal air. |