last work, is well known to those who are acquainted with his history and his music. In the touching language of his biographer we are told. that when the piece was completed, "He threw himself back on his couch faint and exhausted. His countenance was pale and emaciated; yet there was a strange fire in his eye, and the light of gratified joy on his brow that told of success. His task was finished, and the melody, even to his exquisite sensibility, was perfect. It had occupied him for weeks; and though his form was wasted by disease, yet the spirit seemed to acquire more vigor, and already claim kindred to immortalityfor oft as the sound of his own composition stole on his ear, it bore an unearthly sweetness that was to him, too truly a warning of his future and fast coming doom. 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, when, turning towards a fair young girl who entered, 'Emilie, my daughter,' said he, come near to me-my task is over-the requiem is finished. My requiem,' he added, and a sigh escaped him. '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 a glow upon it; do let me bring you something refreshing, and 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, Emilie, in the time of my utmost need; yes, in the hour of death, I 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 dying father then raised himself on his couch-' you spoke of refreshment, my daughter; it can still be afforded my fainting soul. Take these notes, the last I shall ever pen, and sit down to the instrument. Sing with them the hymn so beloved by your mother, and let me once more hear those tones which have been my delight 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 commenced, 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- To mourn for the day that is set. Spirit! no fetters can bind, No wicked have power to molest; There the weary, like thee-the wretched shall find, A heaven-a mansion of rest. Spirit! how bright is the road, For which thou art now on the wing! Thy home, it will be with thy Saviour and God, Their loud hallelujahs to sing.' "As she concluded the last 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 praise. He spoke not-and with something like surprise, she turned towards him. He was laid back upon the sofa, his face shaded in part by his hand, and his form reposing as if in slumber. Starting with fear, Emilie sprang towards him and seized his hand; but the touch paralyzed her, for she sank senseless by his side. He was gone! With the sounds of the sweetest melody ever composed by human thought, his soul had winged its flight to regions of eternal bliss." Such was the death of the illustrious Mozart; and though his religion may be said to have been clouded by the superstitions of his day, we yet can see how fondly he clung to it, however dimmed, as his only refuge when sinking into the grave. I will select but two other names. They shall be taken from the long list of ministers of the gospel, whose faith in its blessed truths was obscured by none of those human devices which serve to distract the mind from the simplicity of its trust in God, whether in life or death. Janeway's "Token for Children" has made the author of that precious little book known to many of us from our childhood. Though he was not a man of great intellect or learning, he was a man of seraphic piety, and of a most gentle spirit. In a measure rarely equalled he had "received the kingdom of God as a little child;" and all his faculties seem to have been shaped for conveying truth to the heart while it is young and tender, not yet hardened through the deceitfulness of sin. He was called away from the world, and from the ministry of the gospel, when in the morning of life; but if he was not allowed to serve his Master long as a living teacher, he was enabled to leave behind him a dying testimony that can scarcely be surpassed. When told that it might please God to raise him up again from a sick bed, he replied, "That would be far from my desire. The world has lost its hold on me. Oh, how poor and contemptible a thing it is in all its glory, compared with the glory of that invisible world that I now live in the sight of. As for life, Christ is my life, health, and strength; and I know that through Him I shall have a better kind of life, when I leave this life on earth. Death has lost its terrors. Death is nothing, death is nothing, through grace to me. I can as peacefully die, as shut my eyes and turn my head and sleep. I long to be with Christ. I long to die. He then, with overpowering emotion, exclaimed, "Oh, help me, |