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Translated by J. F. Clarke
I. THE MOTHER stood at the window; | |
| In the chamber lay her son. | |
| “Arise! arise! dear William, | |
| And see the crowd march on.” | |
| “I am so sick, my mother, | 5 |
| I cannot hear or see; | |
| I think of my dead Gretchen, | |
| And my heart is sad in me.” | |
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| “Then we will go to Kevlaar, | |
| With book and rosary, | 10 |
| And there God’s gracious mother | |
| Will heal thy heart for thee.” | |
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| The banners flutter gayly, | |
| The church bells ring aloud, | |
| Past proud Cologne it marches,— | 15 |
| The singing, praying crowd. | |
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| The son, he leads his mother, | |
| And all go marching on; | |
| “All hail to thee, Maria!” | |
| They sing with solemn tone. | 20 |
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II. God’s mother sits at Kevlaar, | |
| With jewels in her hair; | |
| To-day she wears her diamonds, | |
| For many guests are there. | |
| The sick with votive offerings | 25 |
| Have come from many lands, | |
| To hang upon her altar | |
| Their waxen feet and hands. | |
| For when one offers a waxen hand, | |
| His hand is cured of its wound; | 30 |
| And when one offers a waxen foot, | |
| His foot at once is sound. | |
| Many who came on crutches | |
| Go running and dancing away, | |
| And those whose fingers were stiff as sticks | 35 |
| On the violin can play. | |
| Out of a waxen candle | |
| The mother formed a heart: | |
| “Give this to Holy Mary, | |
| And she will cure thy smart!” | 40 |
| Sadly he took the image, | |
| Went sadly to the shrine, | |
| And, words with tears commingled, | |
| He cried: “O Maid divine! | |
| O Queen of heaven and angels! | 45 |
| Receive my bitter moan. | |
| I dwell with my poor mother, | |
| In a street of fair Cologne; | |
| Where, in three hundred churches, | |
| Men go to sing and pray; | 50 |
| And near to us lived Gretchen, | |
| And she is dead to-day! | |
| I bring this waxen image, | |
| The image of my heart; | |
| Heal thou my bitter sorrow, | 55 |
| And cure my deadly smart! | |
| Do this, and every morning, | |
| Evening, and all day long, | |
| Hail to thee, Blessed Mary, | |
| Shall be my prayer and song!” | 60 |
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III. The sick son and his mother | |
| Slept in a little room; | |
| Then came the Blessed Virgin, | |
| Soft stepping through the gloom. | |
| She bent above the sick man, | 65 |
| And on his heart she laid | |
| Her gentle hand,—then, smiling, | |
| Passed, like a mist, the Maid. | |
| The mother, in her slumber | |
| Had seen the whole event; | 70 |
| Then wakened, for the frightened dogs | |
| Howled, as the Virgin went. | |
| He lay stretched out before her, | |
| Her son, and he was dead; | |
| And on his thin and pallid cheek | 75 |
| The morning sun burned red. | |
| The mother knew not how she felt, | |
| But bent in peace her head; | |
| “God bless thee! Holy Mother!” | |
| Were all the words she said. | 80 |
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