ALLEGRI’S MISERERE.
AT the base of a cliff flowed a tiny rivulet; the rock caught the rain-drops in his broad hand, and poured them down in little streams to meet their brothers at his feet, while the brook murmured a constant song of welcome. But a stone broke from the cliff, and, falling across the rivulet, threatened to cut its tender thread of life.
“My little strength is useless,” moaned the streamlet. “Vainly I struggle to move onward; and below the pebbles are waiting for their cool bath, the budding flowers are longing for my moisture, the little fish are panting for their breath. A thousand lives depend on mine. Who will aid me? Who will pity me?”
“Wait until Allegri passes; he will pity you,” said the breeze. “Once the cruel malaria seized me, and bound messages of death upon me. ‘Pity!’ I cried. ‘Free me from this burden, from which I cannot flee.’ ‘Hear the wind moan,’ said some; but no one listened to my prayer till I met a dreamy musician with God’s own tenderness in his deep eyes. ‘Have mercy!’ I sobbed; and the gentle master plucked branches of roses, and cast them to me. I was covered with roses, pierced with roses, filled with roses; their redness entered my veins, and their fragrance filled my breath; roses fell upon my forehead with the sweetness of a benediction. The death I bore fled from me; for nothing evil can exist in the presence of heaven’s fragrance. Cry to the good Allegri, little brooklet; he will pity you.”
So the rivulet waited till the master came, then sighed for mercy. The rock was lifted, and the stream flowed forward with a cry of joy to share its happiness with pebble and flower and fish.
A little bird had become entangled in the meshes of a net. “Trust to the good Allegri,” whispered the breeze; “it is he who gave me liberty.” “Trust to the good Allegri,” rippled the brook; “it is he who gave me liberty.” So the bird waited till the master passed, then begged a share of his universal mercy. The meshes were parted, and the bird flew to the morning sky to tell its joy to the fading stars and rising sun.
“Oh! yes, we all know Allegri,” twinkled the stars. “Many a night we have seen him at the bed of sickness.”
“Many a day I have seen him in the prison,” shouted the sun with the splendor of a Gloria. “Wherever are those that doubt, that mourn, that suffer; wherever are those that cry for help and mercy—there have I found Allegri.”
The people of the earth wondered what made the sun so glorious, not knowing that he borrowed light from the utterance of a good man’s name.
A multitude of Rome’s children had gathered in S. Peter’s. The Pope was kneeling in the sanctuary; princes and merchants were kneeling together under the vast cupola, the poor were kneeling at the threshold; even a leper dared to kneel on the steps without, and was allowed the presence of his Lord. All souls were filled with longing, all hearts were striving for expression.
Then strains of music arose: O soul! cease your longing; O heart! cease your strife; now utterance is found.
Sadder grew the tones, till, like the dashing of waves, came the sigh: “Vainly I struggle to move onward. Have mercy, Father!” The lights flickered and died, a shadow passed over the worshippers, and the Tiber without stopped in its course to listen.
Sadder grew the tones, till the moan was heard: “Vainly I strive to escape these meshes. Have mercy, Father!” The shadow grew deeper, and a little bird without stopped in its flight to listen.
Still was the music sadder with the weight of the sob: “Vainly I flee from this loathsome burden. Have mercy, Father!” Vaster and darker grew the shadow, and the very breeze stopped in its course to listen.
And now the music mingled sigh and moan and sob in one vast despairing cry: “Vainly I struggle against this rock of doubt. Have mercy, Father! Vainly I strive to escape these meshes of sin. Have mercy, Father! Vainly I flee from this evil self. Have mercy, O Father! have mercy.” Darker and deeper and vaster grew the shadow, and all sin in those human hearts stopped in its triumph to listen.
All light was dead, all sound was dead. Was all hope dead? “No!” wept a thousand eyes. “No!” sobbed a thousand voices; for now high above the altar shone forth the promise of light in darkness, of help in tribulation—in sight of Pope and prince, in sight of rich and poor, and even in sight of the leper kneeling without, gleamed the starry figure of the cross.
“How was this Mass of Allegri so completely formed,” cry the three centuries that have passed since then, “that we have been able to add nothing to its perfection?”
The calm voice of nature answers: It is because his own love and mercy were universal; because he had learned that all creation needs the protecting watchfulness of the Maker; because he gave even the weakest creatures voice in his all embracing cry of Miserere.