Mary thus sang: Kyrie! Lo, our God comes,
Mankind to save from ill and bless:
What grateful joy should break our gloom
And fill our hearts with happiness!
Kyrie eleison!--God is born!
A virgin mother gives him birth;
And sin's dark bonds asunder torn,
Sweet heaven again inclines to earth.
Kyrie!--hear!--the sacred font Pours forth its saving waters free--
And Thou impressest on our front
The sign that drives our foes away.
Christe!--anointed victim!--Thou,
Who in thy death bestowest life--
The healing remedy for woe--
Ah! earth with many a woe is rife.
Christe eleison!--brother dear--
Our liberator from all ill--
Strong in Thy virtue, free from fear,
And be our help to virtue still.
Christe eleison! God and man--
Our only consolation here--
Oh! do not leave us 'neath the ban
Of sorrow perilous and drear.
Oh! Kyrie, Father--Kyrie Son--
Kyrie Spirit--we adore
The Triune God--Thee, only One!
Grant we may praise Thee evermore!
Silence reigned in the room some moments after the last sound had died
away, and then arose a murmur of admiration, and the young girl was
overwhelmed with felicitations.
Whilst being thus complimented, Mary noticed Geronimo at a little distance
from her. Desirous, perhaps, of escaping the praises lavished upon her,
or, it may be, yielding to a real desire, she approached the young man,
drew him towards the piano, and insisted upon his singing an Italian aria.
Geronimo at first refused, but his uncle requested him to yield to the
entreaties of the young girl. Taking up a lute, he hastily tuned it, and
sang the first word of the aria Italia! in such a tone of enthusiasm
that it struck a responsive chord in every Italian heart. The notes fell
from his lips like a shower of brilliant stars; his bosom heaved, his eyes
sparkled, and his rich tenor voice filling the hall produced an
indescribable effect upon the auditors. As his song proceeded, it seemed
to gain in expression and vigor, and as he repeated the refrain Mia bella
Italia! for the last time, his compatriots were so carried away by their
enthusiasm that, forgetful of decorum, all, even the most aged, waved
their caps, exclaiming: "Italia! Italia!"
Tears stood in the eyes of many.
Geronimo was complimented by all present. His uncle called him his beloved
son, Mary spoke to him in the most flattering manner, and Mr. Van de Werve
shook hands with him cordially.
As to Simon Turchi, he was overpowered; all he had just seen and heard was
such a martyrdom; jealousy so gnawed his heart that he sank deeper and
deeper into the abyss of hatred and vengeance. He stood a few steps from
Geronimo, his eyes downcast, and trembling with emotion.