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Aars. Hemang.

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

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!

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; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power

, A time for softer tears—but all are thine !

Youth and the opening rose
May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee! but thou art not of those
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey!

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!

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?

Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?
They have one season--all are ours to die !

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 beauty in its bloom ?
For valour fallen a broken rose or sword ?

A dirge for king or chief,

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,

In links of joy and pain,
Mighty the troubled spirit to enthral!
And let me breathe

my

dower or passion and of power 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;

Swift thoughts, that came and went,

Like torrents o'er me sent,
Have shaken, as a reed, my thrilling frame.

Like perfumes on the wind,

Which none may stay or bind,
The beautiful comes floating through my soul;

I strive with yearnings vain,

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;

Something far more divine

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,

To earthly joy and pain A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell!

I pour each fervent thought

With fear, hope, trembling, fraught, Into the notes that o'er my dust shall swell

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