Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 22 1828/Mozart's Requiem
The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 22, Pages 325-326
MOZART’S REQUIEM.*[1]
"Of its own beauty is the mind diseased,
And fevers into false creation."Childe Harold.
A Requiem!—and for whom?
For Beauty in her 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 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 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 festive 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 hidden streams
And springs 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
Will 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 solemn thought
With fear, hope, trembling fraught,
Into the notes that o'er my dust shall swell.
F. H.
- ↑
* 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 compose a requiem, in his best style, for the funeral of a person of distinction. The sensitive imagination of the composer (who was at the time out of health) immediately seized upon the idea that this was an omen of his own decease, and that the requiem would be for himself. The nervous excitement under which he laboured to complete the task, produced the effect of realizing this impression, and the music was actually performed at his interment.