Classic Poem

I.

The mother's at the window,
In bed her sick son lies.
The pilgrim train is passing,
" William, wilt thou not rise? "

" I am so ill, O mother,
Hearing and sight are fled;
My heart is aching sorely;
I think of Gretchen dead. "

" Arise, we will to Kevlaar,
Take book and rosary;
God's Mother will make whole there
Thine aching heart for thee. "

And loud bursts forth the chanting,
The banners flutter gay,
The pilgrim train is starting
From Koln this very day.

The mother follows the pilgrims;
Her sick son leadeth she;
And both sing in the chorus:
" Praised be thou, Mary! "

*****

II.

The Mother of God at Kevlaar
Wears all her bravery;
The sick folk come in hundreds,
And much to do has she.

And all the suffering mortals
Bring each an offering;
Limbs that of wax are moulded,
Wax hands, wax feet they bring.

And whoso brings a wax hand,
Cures on his hand his wound;
And whoso brings a wax foot,
His foot is straightway sound.

Thither came some on crutches
Who now can dance on the rope;
Some play the viol whose fingers
Were all diseased past hope.

The mother bought wax tapers
And shaped them to a heart;
" Go — bear it to God's Mother,
And she will heal thy smart. "

With sighs he took the wax heart,
He sought the shrine with sighs;
His words gushed from his heart-spring,
The tears gushed from his eyes.

" O blessed 'mid the blessed,
O God's own maiden pure,
O Queen of Heaven, hearken
What sorrow I endure.

" In Koln, the famous city,
I and my mother dwell,
Koln that doth by the hundred
Its shrines and churches tell. "

" And near to us dwelt Gretchen,
But she is dead and past!
O Mary, take this wax heart,
And cure my heart at last.

" My pierced heart, oh ! heal it,
That so my prayer may be,
Fervent, and late, and early,
" Praised be thou, Mary!" "

III.

The sick youth and his mother
In their small chamber slept;
And lo ! God's Mother gently
Across the threshold stepped.

Above the sick boy bending,
She laid her hand awhile
Upon his heart in silence,
And vanished with a smile.

In dreams the mother saw it,
She saw much more beside;
She woke up from her slumber,
The watch-dogs howled and cried.

There lay upon his pallet
Her son — and he was dead!
And on his pale cheek glimmered
The daybreak's gleaming red.

She folded her hands in silence;
No tears, no plaints had she —
Then spoke in meek devotion,
" Praised be thou, Mary! "