MOZART'S REQUIEM.
303
MOZART'S REQUIEM.
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 fall'n—a broken rose or sword?
A dirge for king or chief,
With pomp of stately grief,
Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplor'd?
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!
