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Soon shall you have the notes you ask,
A requiem worthy of my fame."

So spake divine Mozart-and seized

The pen, which taught whole choirs to ring; The pen, which unborn thoughts released, And dealt out sweets to voice and string.

But as he wrote, the vital spark

By rapture's breath too bright was blown;
It blazed-it sunk—and boding dark
Told him the requiem was his own.

'Tis done-convoke the band-prepare the hall;
Spread forth the leaves, but also spread the pall:
With sable scarfs yon organ must be hung;
In silent grief each harp and viol strung;
The fine-drawn bow shall speak to saddened ears,
While he who moves it scarce can read, for tears;
And at each well-wrought close, the tuneful crowd
Struggles with sighs, and longs to sob aloud.
No second" Titus" now, shall try their art;
No new "Enchanted flute" shall soothe the heart.
Hark! how the discords jangle and complain;
But yon mute coffin speaks not back again.

viction, but soon after had to attend him on his death-bed, where he called for the score which he had been writing, and looked over it for the last time. It is one of his most celebrated works.

Death loves not resonance, for he is dight
In weeds, that drink up sound as well as light,
And, anxious for those chords, which close the lay,
Sits with his hour-glass grinning o'er his prey.

Anonymous.

13.

THE SPIRIT OF MUSIC,

FROM CHINDARA's warbling fount I come,
Call'd by that moonlight garland's spell;
From CHINDARA's fount, my fairy home,
Where in music, morn and night, I dwell.
Where lutes in the air are heard about,
And voices are singing the whole day long,
And every sigh the heart breathes out
Is turn'd, as it leaves the lips, to song.
Hither I come

From my fairy home,

And if there's a charm in Music's strain, 1 swear by the breath

Of that moonlight wreath,

Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.

For mine is the lay that lightly floats,
And mine are the murmuring, dying notes,
That fall as soft as snow in the sea,
And melt in the heart as instantly

And the passionate strain that, deeply going,
Refines the bosom it trembles through,

As the musk-wind, over the water blowing,
Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too!

Mine is the charm, whose mystic sway
The Spirits of past Delight obey ;-
Let but the tuneful talisman sound,
And they come, like Genii, hovering round.
And mine is the gentle song, that bears
From soul to soul, the wishes of love,
As a bird, that wafts through genial airs
The cinnamon seed from grove to grove.

'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure
The past, the present, and future of pleasure ;
When Memory links the tone that is gone

With the blissful tone that's still in the ear;
And Hope from a heavenly note flies on

To a note more heavenly still that is near!

The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me,
Can as downy soft and as yielding be

As his own white plume, that high amid death Through the field has shone-yet moves with a breath.

And, oh, how the eyes of Beauty glisten,

When Music has reach'd her inward soul,
Like the silent stars, that wink and listen
While Heaven's eternal melodies roll!
So hither I come

From my fairy home,

And if there's a magic, in Music's strain,
I swear by the breath

Of that moonlight wreath,

Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.

14.

Moore's Lalla Rookh.

SONG.

COME hither, come hither-by night and by day,
We linger in pleasures that never are gone;
Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away,"
Another as sweet and as shining comes on.

And the Love that is o'er, in expiring, gives birth,
To a new one as warm, as unequall'd in bliss;
And oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.

Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh
As the flower of the Amra just op'd by a bee;
And precious their tears as that rain from the sky,
Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea.
Oh! think what the kiss and the smile must be
worth,

When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss; And own if there be an Elysium on earth,

It is this, it is this.

Here sparkles the nectar that, hallow'd by love, Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere,

Who for wine of this earth left the fountains above, And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we have

here.

And, bless'd with the odour our goblet gives forth,
What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss?
For oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.

There's a bliss beyond all that the Minstrel has told,
When two, that are link'd in one heavenly tie,
With heart never changing and brow never cold,
Love on through all ills, and love on till they die!
One hour of a passion so sacred is worth

Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss;
And oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.

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15.

SONG.

Moore's Lalla Rookh.

FLY to the desert, fly with me,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But oh! the choice what heart can doubt

Of tents with love, or thrones without?

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