Sad is
your
tale of the beautiful earth,
Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth!
Yet through the wastes of the trackless air
Ye have a guide, and shall we despair?
Ye over desert and deep have pass'd-
So may we reach our bright home at last!

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

THEY grew in beauty, side by side,
They fill'd one home with glee ;-
Their graves are sever'd, far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;

She had each folded flower in sight—
Where are those dreamers now?

One, 'midst the forest of the west,
By a dark stream is laid—
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one-
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are drest,
Above the noble slain:

He wrapt his colours round his breast
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers-
The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who play'd
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd
Around one parent knee!

They that with smiles lit up

the hall,

And cheer'd with song the hearth

Alas! for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, O earth!

MOZART'S REQUIEM.

[A short time before the death of Mozart, a stranger, of remarkable appearance, and dressed in deep mourning, called at his house, and requested him to prepare a requiem, in his best style, for the funeral of a distinguished person. The sensitive imagination of the composer immediately seized upon the circumstance as an omen of his own fate; and the nervous anxiety with which he laboured to fulfil the task, had the effect of realizing his impression. He died within a few days after completing this magnificent piece of music, which was performed at his interment.]

"These birds of Paradise but long to flee

Back to their native mansion."

Prophecy of Dante.

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 call'd me to prepare,
And my heart answer'd secretly—my own!

One more then, one more strain,
In links of joy and pain,

Mighty the troubled spirit to inthrall!

And let me breathe my dower

Of 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

Something far more divine

Than may on earth be mine,

breast;

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.

THE IMAGE IN LAVA.*

THOU thing of years departed!
What ages have gone by,

Since here the mournful seal was set
By love and agony?

Temple and tower have moulder'd,
Empires from earth have pass'd,
And woman's heart hath left a trace
Those glories to outlast!

And childhood's fragile image,
Thus fearfully enshrined,
Survives the proud memorials rear'd
By conquerors of mankind.

Babe! wert thou brightly slumbering

Upon thy mother's breast,

When suddenly the fiery tomb
Shut round each gentle guest?

A strange, dark fate o'ertook

you,

Fair babe and loving heart!
One moment of a thousand pangs-
Yet better than to part!

Haply of that fond bosom

On ashes here impress'd,

* The impression of a woman's form, with an infant clasped to the bosom, found at the uncovering of Hercula