 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
THE DEATH OF MOZART.
Hast thou no posthumous blush, post-obit tear,Proud Germany? Go on thy knees, and wear
Sackcloth and ashes, nor of penance spare
For that thy sin; o'er which sad Memory ne'er
Shall close her eye, nor Scorn's slow finger e'er
Forget to point at! Oh that thou should'st bear
This shame, who art so proud now of thy share
In him, whose share in thee was,—Pauper's bier!
Proud art thou of thy Mozart; so am I;
So proud, I should have deemed it honour great
To bear his pall. Yet didst thou let him die,
Die like a dog; buried in Pauper-state!
Go kneel, if thou canst find his grave, there-by;
And, if thou canst there, proudly contemplate!
| Stones from The Quarry | |