The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow:
She had each folded flower in sight-
Where are those dreamers now?

One, midst the forests of the West,
By a dark stream is laid-

The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar-shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one-
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved 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 fanned;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers-
The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who played
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee;

They that with smiles lit up the hall,

And cheered with song the hearth!·

Alas, for love! if thou wert all,

And naught beyond, O Earth!

MOZART'S REQUIEM

165

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 realising his impression. He died within a few days after completing this magnificent piece of music, which was performed at his interment."]

"These birds of Paradise but long to flee

Back to their native mansion."

A REQUIEM!-and for whom?

For beauty in its bloom?

For valour fallen ?- a broken rose or sword?

A dirge for king or chief,

With pomp of stately grief,

Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplored?

Not so-it is not so!

The warning voice I know,

From other worlds a strange mysterious tone;

A solemn funeral air

It called me to prepare,

And my heart answered secretly—my own!

One more, then, one more strain,
In links of joy and pain

Mighty the troubled spirit to enthrall!

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 the 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 through my soul;
I strive with yearnings vain

The spirit to detain

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.

THE IMAGE IN LAVA

One more, then, one more strain;
To earthly joy and pain

A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell!
I pour each fervent thought,

With fear, hope, trembling fraught,
Into the notes that o'er my dust shall swell.

167

THE IMAGE IN LAVA

[THE impression of a woman's form, with an infant clasped to her bosom, was found at the uncovering of Herculaneum.]

THOU thing of years departed!
What ages have gone by

Since here the mournful seal was set

By love and agony !

Temple and tower have mouldered,
Empires from earth have passed,
Yet woman's heart hath left a trace
Those glories to outlast;

And childhood's fragile image,
Thus fearfully enshrined,

Survives the proud memorials reared

By conquerors of mankind.

Babe wert thou brightly slumbering

Upon thy mother's breast

When suddenly the fiery tomb

Shut round each gentle guest?

A strange dark fate o'ertook you,
Fair babe and loving heart!
One moment of a thousand pangs-
Yet better than to part!

Haply of that fond bosom

On ashes here impressed,

Thou wert the only treasure, child!
Whereon a hope might rest.

Perchance all vainly lavished
Its other love had been,

And where it trusted, naught remained

But thorns on which to lean.

Far better, then, to perish,

Thy form within its clasp,

Than live and lose thee, precious one! From that impassioned grasp.

Oh! I could pass all relics

Left by the pomps of old,
To gaze on this rude monument
Cast in affection's mould.

Love! human love! what art thou?

Thy print upon the dust Outlives the cities of renown Wherein the mighty trust!

Immortal, oh! immortal

Thou art, whose earthly glow Hath given these ashes holiness It must, it must be so !