 | Fantasy and Passion |  |
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MOZART'S REQUIEM.
A gloom had fallen upon great Mozart's life.
The spirits of wondrous melodies no more
Pleaded with his for animate being. Hope
Had suddenly fled, and melancholy stretched
Wide plumes of shadow above his daily dreams.
Fierce bodily pains had clutched him, and death's hand
Inexorably pointed to his grave.
The spirits of wondrous melodies no more
Pleaded with his for animate being. Hope
Had suddenly fled, and melancholy stretched
Wide plumes of shadow above his daily dreams.
Fierce bodily pains had clutched him, and death's hand
Inexorably pointed to his grave.
In these dark hours, a stranger, tall, black-robed,
Sombre and pale of face, on a certain morn,
Glided across the threshold of his room,
Drew nearer, laid a purse of heavy gold
Before the astonished maestro, and at last
Broke silence with monotonous voice and sad.
“I have come,” the stranger said, “to ask of you
The requiem for one loved, through lapse of years,
Beyond man's use, and bitterly mourned when dead.
Will Mozart weave its music, and create
Some passionate lamentation fit to seem
An utterance of unutterable grief?”
Sombre and pale of face, on a certain morn,
Glided across the threshold of his room,
Drew nearer, laid a purse of heavy gold
Before the astonished maestro, and at last
Broke silence with monotonous voice and sad.
“I have come,” the stranger said, “to ask of you
The requiem for one loved, through lapse of years,
Beyond man's use, and bitterly mourned when dead.
Will Mozart weave its music, and create
Some passionate lamentation fit to seem
An utterance of unutterable grief?”
The maestro, drearily smiling, murmured, then:
“What time is given me to complete this dirge?”
“One month,” was the answer. “Surely I could try,”
Mused Mozart, “yet success were doubtful hope.”
Then, even as he had come, these few words said,
So noiselessly the stranger went.
Amazed,
Mozart long pondered in his mind these words,
Mysteriously communicate, till fire
Warmed his weak pulses, and the immortal rose
Within the mortal. Eagerness for the work
Possessed him, willing harmonies again
Rewandering all the labyrinths of his soul,
As suddenly over still enormous wastes
Of gale-abandoned forest wake once more
The old windy sounds, and lofty branches toss
The sleeping starlight from innumerous leaves!
“What time is given me to complete this dirge?”
“One month,” was the answer. “Surely I could try,”
Mused Mozart, “yet success were doubtful hope.”
Then, even as he had come, these few words said,
So noiselessly the stranger went.
Amazed,
Mozart long pondered in his mind these words,
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Warmed his weak pulses, and the immortal rose
Within the mortal. Eagerness for the work
Possessed him, willing harmonies again
Rewandering all the labyrinths of his soul,
As suddenly over still enormous wastes
Of gale-abandoned forest wake once more
The old windy sounds, and lofty branches toss
The sleeping starlight from innumerous leaves!
With power and will and fervor he began
Fulfilment of his promise; but the month
Had passed not ere a violent malady
Seized his frail frame and forced him from the work.
And on the very morning that he rose,
Reprieved of death for a little longer, came
The stranger to demand the requiem.
“Nay, give me a second month,” the maestro said,
“And if God spare me I shall keep my word.
Nobly begun, I would not hastily end
A work that lifts me to sublimest aims.”
Fulfilment of his promise; but the month
Had passed not ere a violent malady
Seized his frail frame and forced him from the work.
And on the very morning that he rose,
Reprieved of death for a little longer, came
The stranger to demand the requiem.
“Nay, give me a second month,” the maestro said,
“And if God spare me I shall keep my word.
Nobly begun, I would not hastily end
A work that lifts me to sublimest aims.”
Whereat the stranger, with inscrutable face,
Cold, calm, unsympathetic, from beneath
His massive gloomy cloak drew forth a purse
Less heavy than the last, and slowly said:
“An hundred ducats I have given; I give
For the added labor this half-hundred more;”
And turning passed from the other's sight. But he,
Summoning a servant, bade him stealthily
Pursue the whither of this curious man;
And while the servant sped to obey such hest,
In the brain of Mozart ghostly thoughts took shape.
And when the messenger brought back a tale
Of how he had followed with good zeal till soon
The stranger, at a crossing of two streets,
Abruptly had faded from his vigilance,
He knew not how—then Mozart's ghostly thoughts
Wore positive colors of conviction. Strong
Within him was belief that he had seen
The presence of no earthly guest. “I write,”
He would often murmur afterward, “the dirge
For mine own burial. It is death's command!”
Cold, calm, unsympathetic, from beneath
His massive gloomy cloak drew forth a purse
Less heavy than the last, and slowly said:
“An hundred ducats I have given; I give
For the added labor this half-hundred more;”
And turning passed from the other's sight. But he,
Summoning a servant, bade him stealthily
Pursue the whither of this curious man;
And while the servant sped to obey such hest,
In the brain of Mozart ghostly thoughts took shape.
107
Of how he had followed with good zeal till soon
The stranger, at a crossing of two streets,
Abruptly had faded from his vigilance,
He knew not how—then Mozart's ghostly thoughts
Wore positive colors of conviction. Strong
Within him was belief that he had seen
The presence of no earthly guest. “I write,”
He would often murmur afterward, “the dirge
For mine own burial. It is death's command!”
Exaltedly for days he strove to tell,
With eloquence of divinest cadences,
The infinite agony of some widowed heart
Mourning the irreparable. His fine skill
Gathered all sorrowful sounds—wild chords or sweet,
Thrillingly plaintive peals, low interludes,
Ripples of light faint treble soft as tears,
And thunderous throbs of bass, to meet and form
One vast incomparable solemnity.
Genius had grown his vassal, while he toiled,
And beckoned him with beauteous hand where flew
The guiding glory of her white wings ... till soon
In soft illimited amplitudes of dawn,
Glimmering she faded ...
Now a darkness fell
Across the maestro's vision, and he lay
Incapable evermore, his high task done,
Having within its mighty music made
The unrivalled requiem of his own grand soul!
With eloquence of divinest cadences,
The infinite agony of some widowed heart
Mourning the irreparable. His fine skill
Gathered all sorrowful sounds—wild chords or sweet,
Thrillingly plaintive peals, low interludes,
Ripples of light faint treble soft as tears,
And thunderous throbs of bass, to meet and form
One vast incomparable solemnity.
Genius had grown his vassal, while he toiled,
And beckoned him with beauteous hand where flew
The guiding glory of her white wings ... till soon
In soft illimited amplitudes of dawn,
Glimmering she faded ...
Now a darkness fell
Across the maestro's vision, and he lay
Incapable evermore, his high task done,
Having within its mighty music made
The unrivalled requiem of his own grand soul!
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