Look round thee!-o'er the slumbering deep, A solemn glory broods; A fire hath touch'd the beacon-steep, And all the golden woods; A thousand gorgeous clouds on high A softening thought of human cares, Is not yon speck a bark which bears Bright are the floating clouds above, My soul is on that bark's lone way — THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE. BIRDS, joyous birds of the wandering wing! "We have swept o'er cities in song renown'd- 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, And the place is hush'd where the children play'dNought looks the same, save the nest we made!" 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 She had each folded flower in sight- One, 'midst the forest of the west, The sea, the blue lone sea, hath oneHe lies where pearls lie deep; He was the loved of all, yet none 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, And cheer'd with song the hearth 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? Not so it is not so! 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, VOL. V. 27 |