THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE. BIRDS, joyous birds of the wandering wing! "We have swept o'er cities in song renown'd Silent they lie with the deserts round! We have cross'd proud rivers, whose tide hath roll'd And what have ye found in the monarch's dome, O joyous birds, it hath still been so; - "A change we have found there-and many a change! Faces, and footsteps, and all things strange ! Gone are the heads of the silvery hair, And the young that were have a brow of care, Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth, THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. THEY grew in beauty, side by side, The same fond mother bent at night One, 'midst the forest of the west, By a dark stream is laid The Indian knows his place of rest, The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one- - One sleeps where southern vines are drest, He wrapt his colours round his breast And one-o'er her the myrtle showers And parted thus they rest, who play'd They that with smiles lit up the hall, Alas! for love, if thou wert all, And nought beyond, O 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. "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 fallen- -a broken rose or sword? A dirge for king or chief, With pomp of stately grief, Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplored? The warning voice I know, From other worlds a strange mysterious tone; It call'd me to prepare, And my heart answer'd secretly-my own! One more then, one more strain, Mighty the troubled spirit to inthral! 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: Within this clay hath been th' o'ermastering flame; 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; Something far more divine Than may on earth be mine, Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me rest. |