Classic Poem

I

At the window stands the mother,
In bed her son doth lie,
" Wilt thou rise and look out William?
The procession goeth by. "

" I am so sick, my mother,
I can see and hear no more;
I think of my dead Margaret
That makes my heart so sore. "

" Rise, we will go to Kevlaar,
Book and rosary we will bear,
And the dear mother of our Lord
Will heal thy sick heart's care. "

The chaunters they are chaunting,
Swell the church's banners fine,
And the long procession goeth
To Cologne upon the Rhine.

The crowd the mother follows,
Her sick son carries she,
While both do sing in chorus,
" O Mary, praise to thee! "

II

The Virgin unto Kevlaar
In gayest clothes they bear;
To-day she has much work to do,
For many sick come there;

And the sick people carry,
As offering good and meet,
Full many waxen members,
And waxen hands and feet.

Whoso a waxen hand offers,
Heals on his own the wound;
Whoso a waxen foot offers,
His own is thenceforth sound.

Some who went there on crutches,
Could dance on ropes that day;
Some who had scarce a finger
On the violin could play.

The mother took a wax light,
And moulded thence a heart,
" Bear that unto our Mother,
So shall she heal thy smart. "

Sighing he takes the wax heart,
Sighing to Mary goes,
Tears from his eyes are flowing,
Prayer from his full heart flows.

" Oh, thou most Holy Mother,
Thou Virgin good and pure,
Thou Queen of all the Heavens,
Thou canst my sorrow cure!

" I dwell with my dear mother
In the city of Cologne
That many hundred chapels
And churches high doth own.

" And near to us dwelt Margaret,
Who is dead forevermore.
Mary, I bring thee a wax-heart,
Heal thou my heart so sore.

" If my sick heart thou healest,
Early and late from me
Shall ever rise the song and prayer,
O Mary, praise to thee! "

III

The sick son and his mother
In the little chamber lie,
The Holy Virgin cometh
And softly draweth nigh.

She bends above the sick one,
And then her hand doth lay
On his poor heart so gently,
And smiling fades away.

All in dreams the mother seeth,
And more had seen in sleep,
But she wakened from her slumbers —
The dog he howled so deep.

There lay stretched out before her,
Her son — and he was dead!
On his pale cheek was playing
The tender morning red.

His hands the mother folded,
She knew him dead to be,
Then sang devout and softly
" O Mary, praise to thee! "