The composer threw himself back on his couch,
faint and exhausted. His countenance was pale and
emaciated, yet there was fire in his eye and the light of
joy on his brow that told of success. His task was fin-
ished, and the melody, even to his exquisite sensibility,
was perfect. It had occupied him for weeks, and
though his form was wasting by disease, yet his spirit
seemed to acquire new vigor, and already claim kin-
dred with immortality. Now it was finished; and for
the first time for many weeks, he sank into a quiet and
refreshing slumber.

A slight noise in the apartment awoke him. Turn-
ing to a fair young girl who entered, he said “Emilie, my
daughter, come near me — my task is over — the
requiem is finished. My requiem,” he added, and a sigh
escaped him, as present fame and future glory passed
in vivid succession through his mind. The idea, how
soon he must leave it all, seemed for a moment too
hard to endure.

“Oh! Say not so, my father,” said the girl interrupt-
ing him, as tears rushed to her eyes. “You must be bet-
ter, you look better, for even now your cheek has a
glow upon it; do let me bring you something refresh-
ing, for you have had nothing this morning. I am sure
we will nurse you well again.”
“Do not deceive yourself, my love,” said he. “This
wasted form can never be restored by human aid; from
heaven’s mercy alone can I hope for succor; and it will
be granted, my Emilie, in the moment of my utmost
need; yes, in the hour of death will I claim his help,
who is always ready to aid those who trust him.

“The dying father raised himself on his couch, and
said, “You spoke of refreshment, my daughter; it can
still be afforded to my fainting soul; take these notes,
the last I shall ever pen, and sit down to the instru-
ment. Sing with them, the hymn so beloved by your
mother, and let me once more hear those tones which
have been my delight, my passion, since my earliest
remembrance.”

Emilie did as she was desired, and it seemed as if
she sought a relief from her own thoughts; for, after
running over a few chords of the piano, she com-
menced in the sweetest voice, the following lines:

                “Spirit! Thy labor is o’er,
                Thy term of probation is run,
                Thy steps are now bound for the untrodden shore
                And the race of immortals begun.
                “Spirit! Look not on the strife,
                Or the pleasures of earth with regret,
                Pause not on the threshold of limitless life,
                To mourn for the day that is set.

                “Spirit! No fetters can bind,
                No wicked have power to molest,
                There the weary like thee, and the wretched shall find
                A heaven, a mansion of rest.

                “Spirit! How bright is the road
                For which thou are now on the wing,
                Thy home it will be with thy Saviour and God,
                Their loud hallelujahs to sing.”

As she concluded the stanza, she dwelt for a few
moments on the low, melancholy notes of the piece,
and then waited in silence for the mild voice of her
father’s praises. He spoke not, and with something like
surprise she turned toward him; he was laid back
upon the sofa, his face shaded in part with his hand,
and his form reposed as if in slumber. Starting with
fear, Emilie sprang toward him and seized his hand,
but the touch paralyzed her, for she sank senseless by
his side. He was gone. With sound of the sweetest
melody ever composed by human thought, his soul had
winged its flight to regions of eternal bliss.