Mozart, "The Glorious Boy", Rubenstein named him well,

Was born with the gift of music, on him the mantel fell

Of many great composers, who justly won a name,

Though Mozart soared above them on pinnacles of fame.

When as a tiny kiddie with birthdays not yet five

He played his little violin as if it were alive,

Composing wondrous music which was so grand and sweet

That even queens and princes would fall down at his feet.

His music flowed as easily as waters in a brook,

And sparkled as bright sunbeams peeping in a nook.

An opera he finished before his thirteenth year

And when he was but fourteen musicians came to hear

La Scala, greatest orchestra, which the world then had,

The Pope conferred upon him the order "Golden Spur."

Until he reached his sixteenth year nothing did deter

This clever lad from mounting to highest realms of fame,

Flowers rained upon him and life seemed but a game.

And then came years of suffering when through Envy's stings

And malice of musicians, who wished to clip his wings,

He saw the dark and dreary and rocky road of life

And soon he grew awearied of sickness, hunger, strife

And discontent within his home, for Constance whom he wed,

Was ever cross and ailing and spent her days in bed.

And though he was still youthful, not more than thirty-five,

When most of earthly children are glad to be alive,

Poor Mozart, worn by constant work and worried by his wife,

One dreary, dark December day to Death gave up his life.

This great soul's earthly castle not one friend tried to save

From an ignoble burial within a pauper's grave;

And no one put a marker to show where it was laid,

But the glory of great Mozart's works will never, never fade.