POETRY.

THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR.

[F11031 HEINE.] I.

THE mother stood at the window, IIer son lay in the bed ; " Look, Wilhelm, the procession Is passing by," she said.

" So sick I am, my mother, I can nor hear nor see ; With thinking of my Gretchen, My heart aches bitterly."

" Get up,—we'll go to Kevlaar, With book and rosary, And sure our Blessed Lady Will heal thy heart for thee."

The holy banners flutter, As onward goes the line, The holy psalms are chanted, At Kiiln, upon the Rhine.

The mother follows also, Leading her son goes she, Both singing with the chorus, "Mary, all praise to thee."

H.

To-day Our Lady at Kevlaar Her finest clothes doth wear ; So much she must be doing, So many sick come there.

The sick folk all are bringing To her, as offerings meet, Limbs that of wax are fashioned, Waxen hands and feet. A waxen hand one offers, And heals in his hand the wound ;

A waxen foot another,—

And straight his foot is sound.

And many are now rope-dancers Who went upon crutches there, And many can fiddle gaily Whose fingers useless were.

The mother took a candle, Aud made of it a heart ; " Take that to our Blessed Lady, And she will heal thy smart."

The heart be took, and sighing, Unto the shrine did go, And from his eyes the tears, The words from his heart did flow.

" 0 thou so highly blessed, 0 purest Maid divine, Thou who art Queen of Heaven, Pity this grief of mine !

At Köln, in the city, I with my mother dwelt, The city where so many Churches and shrines are built.

And close to us dwelt Gretchen, But dead is Gretchen now,— A waxen heart I bring thee, My wounded heart heal thou.

Oh, heal my heart that's wounded, And I will fervently Keep singing, late and early, Mary, all praise to thee."

The sick son and his mother Within the chamber slept ; There came our Blessed Lady, And lightly in she stept.

She bent her o'er the sick man, And on his heart did lay Her gentle hand quite lightly, And smiled and passed away_ The mother, dreaming, saw it, And something more beheld; She woke from out her slumber, The dogs so loudly yelled.

There lay, stretched out before her, Her son,—and he was dead, And on his pale cheek playing, The morning light shone red.

Her hands the mother folded, She felt so wondrously ; Devout she sang, and softly,.

" Mary, all praise to thee." A. T. L..