 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
275
Mozart's Requiem.—Rufus Dawes.
The tongue of the vigilant clock tolled one,
In a deep and hollow tone;
The shrouded moon looked out upon
A cold, dank region, more cheerless and dun,
By her lurid light that shone.
In a deep and hollow tone;
The shrouded moon looked out upon
A cold, dank region, more cheerless and dun,
By her lurid light that shone.
Mozart now rose from a restless bed,
And his heart was sick with care;
Though long had he wooingly sought to wed
Sweet Sleep, 'twas in vain, for the coy maid fled,
Though he followed her every where.
And his heart was sick with care;
Though long had he wooingly sought to wed
Sweet Sleep, 'twas in vain, for the coy maid fled,
Though he followed her every where.
He knelt to the God of his worship then,
And breathed a fervent prayer;
'Twas balm to his soul, and he rose again
With a strengthened spirit, but started when
He marked a stranger there.
And breathed a fervent prayer;
'Twas balm to his soul, and he rose again
With a strengthened spirit, but started when
He marked a stranger there.
He was tall, the stranger who gazed on him,
Wrapped high in a sable shroud;
His cheek was pale, and his eye was dim,
And the melodist trembled in every limb,
The while his heart beat loud.
Wrapped high in a sable shroud;
His cheek was pale, and his eye was dim,
And the melodist trembled in every limb,
The while his heart beat loud.
“Mozart, there is one whose errand I bear,
Who cannot be known to thee;
He grieves for a friend, and would have thee prepare
A requiem, blending a mournful air
With the sweetest melody.”
Who cannot be known to thee;
He grieves for a friend, and would have thee prepare
A requiem, blending a mournful air
With the sweetest melody.”
“I'll furnish the requiem then,” he cried,
“When this moon has waned away!”
The stranger bowed, yet no word replied,
But fled like the shade on a mountain's side,
When the sunlight hides its ray.
“When this moon has waned away!”
The stranger bowed, yet no word replied,
But fled like the shade on a mountain's side,
When the sunlight hides its ray.
Mozart grew pale when the vision fled,
And his heart beat high with fear;
He knew 'twas a messenger sent from the dead,
To warn him, that soon he must make his bed
In the dark, chill sepulchre.
And his heart beat high with fear;
He knew 'twas a messenger sent from the dead,
To warn him, that soon he must make his bed
In the dark, chill sepulchre.
276
He knew that the days of his life were told,
And his breast grew faint within;
The blood through his bosom crept slowly and cold,
And his lamp of life could barely hold
The flame that was flickering.
And his breast grew faint within;
The blood through his bosom crept slowly and cold,
And his lamp of life could barely hold
The flame that was flickering.
Yet he went to his task with a cheerful zeal,
While his days and nights were one;
He spoke not, he moved not, but only to kneel
With the holy prayer—“O God, I feel
'Tis best thy will be done!”
While his days and nights were one;
He spoke not, he moved not, but only to kneel
With the holy prayer—“O God, I feel
'Tis best thy will be done!”
He gazed on his loved one, who cherished him well,
And weepingly hung o'er him:
“This music will chime with my funeral knell,
And my spirit shall float, at the passing bell,
On the notes of this requiem!”
And weepingly hung o'er him:
“This music will chime with my funeral knell,
And my spirit shall float, at the passing bell,
On the notes of this requiem!”
The cold moon waned: on that cheerless day,
The stranger appeared once more;
Mozart had finished his requiem lay,
But e'er the last notes had died away,
His spirit had gone before.
The stranger appeared once more;
Mozart had finished his requiem lay,
But e'er the last notes had died away,
His spirit had gone before.
| The American common-place book of poetry | |