| Home Making |
Chapter 9 |
Page 18 |
The last song and the most beautiful that Mozart sang was his Requiem. He had been engaged upon this exquisite piece for several weeks, his soul filled with inspirations of richest melody. After giving the last touch, and breathing into it that undying spirit of song which was to consecrate it for all time, he fell into a gentle and quiet slumber. At length the light footsteps of his daughter awoke him.
“Come hither, my Emilie,” he said; “my task is done. The Requiem, my requiem, is finished.”
“Say not so, dear father,” spoke the gentle girl; “you must be better; even now your cheek has a glow upon it.”
“Do not deceive yourself, my child,” said the dying father; “this wasted form can never be restored by human aid. Take these, my last notes; sit down by my piano here and sing them with the hymns of thy sainted mother. Let me once more hear those tones which have so long been my solace and delight.”
Emilie obeyed, with a voice enriched by the tenderest emotion. Then, turning from the piano when she had finished, she looked in silence for the approving smile of her father, but there was instead only the still, passionless smile which the rapt spirit had left, with the seal of death upon his features. He had gone home on the wings of his own Requiem.
There is no requiem so sweet for the departing spirit as the hallowed memories of a true home. They will make music in the heart in its last moments, inspiring as the songs of angels.
May God help every one of us to live at home so tenderly, so unselfishly, so lovingly, that the memories we make within our own doors shall be our own holiest requiem, on the breath of which our spirits may be wafted away to glory in the Home in our Father’s House!
The End
Page 18
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