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.”