The voice of freedom. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1839-1848, 1844-04-25
MI s C E L L A N Y.
MOzart,s Last Moments.

The composer threw himself back on
his couch, faint and exhausted. His
countenance was pale and emaciated, ye,
there was strange fire in his eye, and
the light of joy on his brow, that told Of
success. His task was finished, and the
melody, even to its exquisite sensibility,
was perfect. 1t had occupied him for
weeks, and, though his form was wasting
by disease, yet the spirit seemed 10 &C
quire more vigor; and already claimed
kindred to immortality-for oft as the
sound of his own composition stole on his
ear, it bore an unearthly sweetness, that
was to him too truly warning of his fu-
ture and fast coming doom. Now it was
finished, and for the first time for many
weeks, he sank into quiet and refreshing
slumber. The apartment in which he
lay was large and we'll lighted by win
dow in small recess, that opened to the
east near it his couch was placed, ia
BILE for writing at his feet, and, just before
him, his favorite, inseparable piano. The
window was shaded by a curtain of Grim.
son damask; and as the sun, which had
scarcely attained its meridian, stole thro'
it, there was rich glow cast upon every
object. One beam fell upon the head of
the composer, and then passed, appearing
to say. like this shall your day of life be |;
bright and glorious; but even so shall it
vanish and pass away, though shining in
noontide splendor.' A slight noise in the
apartment awoke him, who turning tow
ards fair young girl who entered, En-
lille, my daughter said he, come near to
me-my task is over-the requiem is fin.
isked. My requiem he added, and a
sigh escaped him, as present fame and
future glory passed in vivid succession
through his mind, and the idea how soon
he must leave it all, seemed for moment
too hard to endure. 'Oh say not so, my
father,' said the girl, interrupting him, as
tears stood in her eyes, you must be better,
you look better, for even now your cheek
has glow upon it do let me bring you
something refreshing, for you have had
nothing this morning, and | am sure we
will nurse you we'll again DO not de-
ceive yourself, my love-, said he, this
wasted form can never be restored by hu-
nun aid. From heavens mercy alone,
can | hope for succor and it will be
granted, Emile, in the time of my utmost
need; yes, in the hour of death 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 restless
soul, return to him who gave it, The
tender girl stood in pallid, though mute
distress; not a sigh, not a tear escaped
her. The idea of death broke so sudden
ly OH her mind. that it checked every
mode of utterance, and she gazed upon
his countenance as in dream.
Death, at any period of life, wears an
awful aspect; but never more so than to
The youthful heart whose every step has
been that Of health and Joy, and whose
pulse, yet swayed by hope, had
never been chilled by the sorrows, or dis
racted by the doubts and fears that hang
over our earthly existence. Thus it was
With Emile; united by the tenderest
10 her father, and living, as it
we're, in a world OF music, no wonder that
he beheld death with terror as the de-
troyer of her all-of happiness. The
wing father raised himself on his couch, I
you spoke of refreshment, my daughter ]
can still be afforded my fainting SOUL |
AXE these notes, the last that shall ev- l
: pen, and sit down to the instrument
ing with them the hymn so beloved by $
our mother, and let me once more hear
ose tones which have been my eight a
y passion, since my earliest remem. o
ance.' Emile did az she was desired ly
d it seemed as if she sought relief al
IN her own Thoughts: for after running =,
'r few chords OF the piano. she com. "
'nced, in the sweetest voice. the follow tic
linaos ID,