Litchfield enquirer., 1833-08-15
MnZART.

a&@@ The composer threw himself back on his couch, faint and exhausted. Ills countenance was pale and emaciated, yet there was a strange fire in his eye and the l;uht ioy on his brow, that told of fsuccess. His rask was finished, and the melody, ev- er, to his exquisite sensibility, was perfect. It had occupied him for weeks, ands though his form was wasting by disease, yet his snirit seemed to acquire new vigor, aud al- ready claim kindred with immortality !; for off as the sound of his own composition stole on his ear,i bore an nnearlhly sweet ness, that was, to him, too truly a warming of his future fast-coming doom. Now il was finished and, for the first time for many weeks, he sank into . aniet and re- freshing slumber. The apartment in which he lay was large, lighted by window. in a small recess, that opened to the east near it his couch was placed, a table for wri- ting stood at his feet. and just before him bis favorite, inseparahle piano. The win dow was shaded by curtain of crimson damask, and, as the sun (which had scarce ly attained ifs n,eridian.) stole through 1t, there was rich glow cast upon every ob- iect. One beam fell upon the head of the composer, and shen passed, appearing to say, Like this shall your day of life be, bright and glorious; but even so shall il vanish and pass away, though shining in noon-tide splendor.
 A slight noise in the apartment awoke him, when, turning toward a fair young girl who entered, Emile. my daughter,' said he, come near me-my task is over 1.-the requiem is finished. My reqniem,' he added, and sigh escaped him, as pres ent fame and future glory passed in vivid succession through his mind, and she idea, how soon he must leave it all, seemed. for . moment, too hard to endure. Oh, say not so, my father.' said the girl, interrup- ting him, as tears rushed to her eyes. you must be better, you look better, for even now your cheek has a glow upon it; do le. me bring something refreshing, for you have had nothing this nioining, and l am sure we will nurse you well again.
 Do not deceive yourself, my love, said he, this wasted form never can be restor- ed by human aid ;f from heavens mercy alone can hope for succor; and it will be granted, my Emile, in the time of my utmost need yes, in the hour of deatl will claim His help. who is always ready to aid those who trust in him and soon, very soon must this mortal frame be laid in its quiet sleeping -place, and this rest less soul return to Him who gave it,
 The tender girl stood in paliid though mute distress not sigh, not a tear esca- ped her. The idea of death broke SO sud denly on her mind, that 1t checked, every mode of utterance, and she gazed upon hi. countenance as if in a dream. Death, a, any period of lii6, wears an awful aspect but never moro so than to the youthful heart, whose every step has been that oi healtll and joy, and whose bounding pulse, yet swayed by hope, has never been chil- led by the sorrow or distracted by the doubts and fears that hang over our earthly existence. Thus was it with Emile uni- ted by the tenderest sympathy to her taih- CT, and living, as it were, in a world. of mn- sic, no wonder that she beheld death with terror, as the destroyer of, her all of hap- piness. i ae
 The dying father raised himself on his couch, and said, You spoke of refresh- nsent, my daughter, it can stiii Do afforded to my fainting soul; take these notes, the last that I shall ever pen, and sit down.to the instrument. Sing with them tho hymn so beloved by your mother, and lot me once more hear those tones which have been my delight, my nGssiOa. since my earliest re- membranceA Emile did as she was desi- red, and it seemed as ifshe sought relief from her own thoughts, for, after running over a few chords pf ihs piano, she com Tnenced, in the sweetest voice, the follow. ing lines: f''@.'' ''@ '" sspirit thy labor is o'er, E & a
 Thy term of probation is run,
 Thy steps are now bound for lhe unirodden shore,
 And the race of immoftnl begun. XXI
 Spirit look not on the strife m
 Or the pleasures Of earth with regret,
 Pause not on ihe threshold of lhni,leas life. T
 Te mourn f6rthy day that is sel. % & Gpisitl no iss.ers can bind. ss .., ..s sa ... +9
 No wicked have power to modest,
 zhsrs ahe weary, ike thee, aud the wretched shall find
 A kaseRs . maasion ofrest. 3Y "ae'@P' Spirit! how bright ia she road s
 For which thou Hrt now on the wing, ~ w Thy k0nsa it wilt be-, with thy Havios and God, 3
 Their lond haileIuiahs to sing. K M
 AS she concluded the last stanza, she dwelt, for . few moments, on the low mel- ancholy nolss of the piece. and then wait- ed, in silen6e, for the mild voice of her ia tberss praises. He spoke not-and, with something like surprise, she turned toward him hc was laid back upon the s0fa, lis face shaded in part with his hand, and his form reposed as if in slumber. Starting