Volume 2 — From The Lamp. THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR. FROM THE GERMAN.

The mother stood at the window. The son he lay in bed; "Here's a procession, Wilhelm; Wilt not look out?" she said. "I am so ill, my mother, In the world I have no part; I think upon dead Gretchen, And a death-pang rends my heart." "Rise up; we will to Kevlaar; Will staff and rosary take; God's Mother there will cure thee,— Thy sick heart whole will make." The Church's banner fluttered, The Church's hymns arose; And unto fair Cöln city The long procession goes. The mother joined the pilgrims, Her sick son leadeth she; And both sing in the chorus, "Gelobt seyst du, Marie!" [Footnote 22]

II. The holy Mother in Kevlaar To-day is well arrayed,— To-day hath much to busy her. For many sick ask her aid. {128} And many sick people bring her Such offerings as are meet; Many waxen limbs they bring her, Many waxen hands and feet. And who a wax hand bringeth, His hand is healed that day; And who a wax foot bringeth, With sound feet goes away. Many went there on crutches Who now on the rope can spring; Many play now on the viol Whose hands could not touch a string. The mother she took a waxen light. And shaped therefrom a heart; "Take that to the Mother of Christ," she said, "And she will heal thy smart." He sighed, and took the waxen heart, And went to the church in woe; The tears from his eyes fell streaming, The words from his heart came low. "Thou that art highly blessed, Thou Mother of Christ!" said he; "Thou that art queen of heaven, I bring my griefs to thee. I dwell in Cöln with my mother; In Cöln upon the Rhine, Where so many hundred chapels And so many churches shine. And near unto us dwelt Gretchen; But dead is Gretchen now. Marie, I bring a waxen heart,— My heart's despair heal thou. Heal thou my sore heart-sickness; So I will sing to thee Early and late with fervent love, "Gelobt seyst du, Marie!" {129} III. The sick son and the mother In one chamber slept that night; And the holy Mother of Jesus Gild in with footsteps light She bowed her over the sick man's bed, And one there hand did lay Upon his throbbing bosom, Then smiled and passed away. It seemed a dream to the mother, And she had yet seen more But that her sleep was broken, For the dogs howled at the door. Upon his bed extended Her son lay, and was dead; And o'er his thin pale visage streamed The morning's lovely red. Her hands the mother folded. Yet not a tear wept she; But sang in low devotion, "Gelobt seyst du, Marie!" MARY HOWITT.