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
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 come 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.

THE PALM TREE.

It waved not through an Eastern sky,
Beside a fount of Araby;

It was not fanned by southern breeze
In some green isle of Indian seas,
Nor did its graceful shadow sleep
O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep

But fair the exiled Palm-tree grew
Midst foliage of no kindred hue;
Thro' the laburnum's dropping gold
Rose the light shaft of orient mould,
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet,
Purpled the moss-beds at its feet.

Strange looked it there!—the willow streamed
Where silvery waters near it gleamed;
The lime-bough lured the honey bee

To murmur by the desert's tree,
And showers of snowy roses made
A lustre in its fan-like shade.