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"Well, what does he

handsomely dressed, of dignified and impressive manners. "I have been commissioned, sir, by a man of considerable importance, to call upon you."- "Who is he?" interrupted Mozart. "He does not wish to be known.". want?"- "He has just lost a person whom he tenderly loved, and whose memory will be eternally dear to him. He is desirous of annually commemorating this mournful event by a solemn service, for which he requests you to compose a requiem."

Mozart was forcibly struck by this discourse, by the grave manner in which it was uttered, and by the air of mystery, in which the whole was involved. He engaged to write the requiem. The stranger continued, " Employ all your genius on this work; it is destined for a connoisseur." "So much the better.". "What time do you require?". "A month.".

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"Very well; in a month's time I shall return

- what price do you set on your work?”. "A hundred ducats."* The stranger counted them on the table, and disappeared.

Mozart remained lost in thought for some time: he then suddenly called for pen, ink and paper, and, in spite of his wife's entreaties, began to write. This rage for composition continued several days; he wrote day and night, with an ardor which seemed continually to increase; but his constitution, already in a state of great debility, was unable to support this enthusiasm; one morning he fell senseless, and was obliged to suspend his work. Two or three days after, when his wife sought to divert his mind from the gloomy pre sages which occupied it, he said to her abruptly, "It is certain that I am writing this requiem for myself; it will serve for my funeral service." Nothing could remove this impression from his mind.

As he went on, he felt his strength diminish from day to day, and the score was advancing slowly. The month which

*Pron. důk-ats.

he had fixed being expired, the stranger again made his appearance. "I have found it impossible," said Mozart, "to keep my word." - "Do not give yourself any uneasiness," replied the stranger; "what further time do you require ?" "Another month: the work has interested me more than I expected, and I have extended it much beyond what I at first designed." "In that case, it is but just to increase the premium; here are fifty ducats more.". "Sir," said Mozart, with increasing astonishment, "who then are you?". "That is nothing to the purpose; in a month's time I shall return." Mozart immediately called one of his servants, and ordered him to follow this extraordinary personage, and find out who he was; but the man failed from want of skill, and returned without being able to trace him.

Poor Mozart was then persuaded that he was no ordinary being; that he had a connection with the other world, and was sent to announce to him his approaching end. He applied himself with the more ardor to his requiem, which he regarded as the most durable monument of his genius. While thus employed, he was seized with the most alarming fainting fits, but the work was at length completed before the expiration of the month. At the time appointed, the stranger returned, but Mozart was no more.

His career was as brilliant as it was short. He died before he had completed his thirty-sixth year; but, in this short space of time, he had acquired a name which will never perish, so long as feeling hearts are to be found.

LESSON LXVIII.

Death and Burial of a Child at Sea. - SCRAP BOOK.

My boy refused his food, forgot to play,

And sickened on the waters, day by day;

He smiled more seldom on his mother's smile,
He prattled less, in accents void of guile,
Of that wild land, beyond the golden wave,
Where I, not he, was doomed to be a slave;
Cold o'er his limbs the listless languor grew ;
Paleness came o'er his eye of placid blue,
Pale mourned the lily where the rose had died,
And timid, trembling, came he to my side.
He was my all on earth. (O! who can speak
The anxious mother's too prophetic woe,

Who sees death feeding on her dear child's cheek,
And strives in vain to think it is not so?
Ah! many a sad and sleepless night I passed,
O'er his couch, listening in the pausing blast,
While on his brow, more sad from hour to hour,
Drooped wan dejection, like a fading flower!,

At length my boy seemed better, and I slept-
O, soundly!but, methought, my mother wept
O'er her poor Emma; and, in accents low,
Said, "Ah! why do I weep and weep in vain
For one so loved, so lost?. (Emma, thy pain
Draws to a close Even now is rent in twain
The loveliest link, that binds thy breast to woe-
Soon, broken heart, we soon shall meet again!"
Then o'er my face her freezing hand she crossed,
And bending, kissed me with her lip of frost.
I waked; and at my side-O! still and cold!
O! what a tale that dreadful chillness told!
Shrieking, I started up, in terror wild ;

Alas! and had I lived to dread my child?

Eager I snatched him from his swinging bed;

His limbs were stiff- he moved not he was dead

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O! let me weep!—what mother would not weep To see her child committed to the deep?

No mournful flowers, by weeping fondness laid, Nor pink, nor rose, drooped, on his breast displayed,

Nor half-blown daisy, in his little hand:
Wide was the field around, but 't was not land.
Enamored death, with sweetly pensive grace,
Was awful beauty to his silent face.

No more his sad eye looked me into tears!
Closed was that eye beneath his pale, cold brow;
And on his calm lips, which had lost their glow,
But, which, though pale, seemed half unclosed to speak,
Loitered a smile, like moonlight on the snow.

I gazed upon him still-not wild with fears
Gone were my fears, and present was despair!
But, as I gazed, a little lock of hair,

Stirred by the breeze, played, trembling on his cheek; O, God! my heart! — I thought life still was there.

But, to commit him to the watery grave,

O'er which the winds, unwearied mourners, rave!
One, who had come to take my child away,
Upraised the body; thrice I både him stay;
For still my wordless woe had much to say,
And still I bent and gazed, and gazing wept.

At last my sisters, with humane constraint,
Held me, and I was calm as dying saint;
While that stern weeper lowered into the sea
My ill-starred boy! deep-buried deep, he slept.
And then I looked to heaven in agony,
And prayed to end my pilgrimage of pain,
That I might meet my beauteous boy again!

O! had he lived to reach this wretched land,
And then expired, I would have blessed the strand.
But where my poor boy lies I may not lie;

I cannot come, with broken heart, to sigh

O'er his loved dust, and strew* with flowers his turf; His pillow hath no cover but the surf;

Pron. strow.

I

may not pour the soul-drop from mine eye

Near his cold bed: he slumbers in the wave!
O! I will love the sea, because it is his grave!

LESSON LXIX.

Death and Character of Howard. - CLARKE.

Ir had been his almost daily custom, at a certain hour to visit Admiral Priestman, but, failing of his usual call, the admiral went to know the cause, and found him sitting before a stove in his bed-room. Having inquired after his health, Mr. Howard replied, that his end was fast approaching, that he had several things to say to his friend, and thanked him for calling.

The admiral endeavored to turn the conversation, imagining the whole might be merely the result of low spirits; but Mr. Howard soon assured him it was otherwise, and added, "Priestman, you style this a very dull conversation, and endeavor to divert my mind from dwelling on death; but I entertain very different sentiments. Death has no terrors for me: it is an event I have always looked to with cheerfulness, if not with pleasure; and be assured that it is to me a more grateful subject than any other."

He then spoke of his funeral, and cheerfully gave directions concerning the manner of his interment. "There is a spot," said he, "near the village of Dauphigny, which would suit me nicely; you know it well, for I have often said I should like to be buried there; and let me beg of you, as you value your old friend, not to suffer any pomp to be used at my burial; nor any monument, nor monumental inscription whatsoever to mark where I am laid; deposit me quietly in the earth, place a sun-dial over my grave, and let me be forgotten."

A letter at this time arriving from England, containing

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