MRS. HEMANS. THE HOUR OF DEATH LEAVES have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! Day is for mortal care, Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer; But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth! The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! We know when moons shall wane, When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, When Autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain; But who shall teach us when to look for thee? Is it when spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; 'Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth-and thou art there; Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest, Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath, And stars to set-but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! MOZART'S REQUIEM A Requiem!-and for whom? For valour fallen-a broken rose or sword? 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, 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; Like torrents o'er me sent, Like perfumes on the wind, 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; 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 One more then, one more strain, A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell! With fear, hope, trembling, fraught, Into the notes that o'er my dust shall swell. |