Suma risum, Magdalena,
Frons nitescat lucida;
Denigravit omnis pœna,
Lux coruscat fulgida;
Christus nondum liberavit,
Et de morte triumphavit:
Alleluia resonet!
Gaude, plaude Magdalena,
Tumbâ Christus exiit;
Tristis est per acta scena,
Victor mortis rediit;
Quem deflebis morientem,
Nunc arride resurgentem:
Alleluia resonet!
Tolle vultum, Magdalena,
Redivivum obstupe:
Vide frons quam sit amœna,
Quinque plagas adspice;
Fulgem sicut margaritæ,
Ornamenta rovæ vitæ:
Alleluia resonet!
Vive, vive, Magdalena!
Tua lux reversa est;
Guadiis turgesit vena,
Mortis vis obstersa est;
Maesti procul sunt dolores,
Læti redeant amores:
Alleluia resonet!
Yes, even in the old dark times, heart after heart, in quiet homes and secret convent cells, has doubtless learned this hidden joy. But now the world seems learning it. The winter has its robins, with their solitary warblings; but now the spring is here, the songs come in choruses,—and thank God I am awake to listen!
But the voice which awoke this music first in my heart, among these very forests—and since then, through the grace of God, in countless hearts throughout this and all lands—what silence hushes it now? The silence of the grave, or only of some friendly refuge? In either case, doubtless, it is not silent to God.
I had scarcely finished my hymn, when the trees became more scattered and smaller, as if they had been cleared not long since; and I found myself on the edge of a valley, on the slopes of which nestled a small village, with its spire and belfry rising among the wooden cottages, and flocks of sheep and goats grazing in the pastures beside the little stream which watered it.
I lifted up my heart to God, that some hearts in that peaceful place might welcome the message of eternal peace through the books I carried.
As I entered the village, the priest came out of the parsonage—an aged man, with a gentle, kindly countenance—and courteously saluted me.
I offered to show him my wares.