And many can fiddle gaily
Whose fingers useless were.
The mother took a candle,
And made of it a heart;
"Bring that to our blessed Lady,
And she will heal thy smart."

The heart he took, and sighing
Unto the shrine did go ;
And from his eyes the tears,

The words from his heart did flow.

"O thou so highly blessed,

O purest Maid divine,

Thou who art Queen of Heaven,
Pity this grief of mine.

"At Köllen 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.

"O heal my heart that's wounded,
And I will fervently

Keep singing late and early
'Mary, all praise to thee.'"

III.

The sick man and his mother
Within the chamber slept ;
Then 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 hounds 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."

From H. HEINE.

May 18.

HOW THE WALL-FLOWER CAME FIRST,

AND WHY SO CALLED.

WHY this flower is now call'd so,
List, sweet maids, and you shal know.
Understand, this first-ling was
Once a brisk and bonny lasse,
Kept as close as Danae was;
Who a sprightly Springall lov'd;
And to have it fully prov'd,

Up she got upon a wall,
Tempting down to slide withall;
But the silken twist unty'd,

So she fell; and bruis'd, she dy'd.
Love, in pitty of the deed,
And her loving lucklesse speed,
Turn'd her to this plant we call
Now The Flower of the Wall.

HERRICK, Hesperides.

May 19.

CRABBED age and youth
Cannot live together:
Youth is full of pleasaunce,
Age is full of care;

Youth like summer morn,
Age like winter weather;
Youth like summer brave,
Age like winter bare.
Youth is full of sport,
Age's breath is short;

Youth is nimble, age is lame,
Youth is hot and bold,

Age is weak and cold;

Youth is wild, and age is tame.

Age, I do abhor thee,
Youth, I do adore thee!

O my love, my love is young!
Age, I do defy thee;

O sweet shepherd, hie thee,

For methinks thou stay'st too long.

SHAKESPEARE,

The Passionate Pilgrim.

May 20.

CLEAR and cool, clear and coɔl,
By laughing shallow and dreaming pool;
Cool and clear, cool and clear,

By shining shingle and foaming wear ;
Under the crag where the angel sings,
And the ivied wall where the church bell rings,
Undefiled for the undefiled;

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

Dank and foul, dank and foul,
By the smoky town in its murky cowl,
Foul and dank, foul and dank,
By wharf and sewer and shiny bank;
Darker and darker the further I go,
Baser and baser the richer I grow ;

Who dare sport with the sin-defiled? Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child.

Strong and free, strong and free ;
The floodgates are open, away to the sea.
Free and strong, free and strong,
Cleansing my streams as I hurry along
To the golden sands, and the leaping bar,
And the taintless tide that awaits me afar,
As I lose myself in the infinite main,

Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again.
Undefiled for the undefiled;

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

C. KINGSLEY, The Water Babies.

May 21.

WOMEN.

NOTHING SO true as what you once let fall,
"Most women have no characters at all!"
Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear,
And best distinguish'd by black, brown, or fair.

Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it,
If Folly grow romantic, I must paint it.
Ladies, like variegated tulips, show,

'Tis to their changes half their charms we owe.
Fine by defect, and delicately meek,
Their happy spots the nice admirer take.
'Twas thus Calypso once each heart alarm'd,
And without virtue, without beauty charm'd ;
Her tongue bewitch'd as oddly as her eyes,
Less wit than mimic, more a wit than wise;
Strange graces still, and stranger flights she had,
Was just not ugly, and was just not mad;
Yet ne'er so sure our passion to create,

As when she touch'd the brink of all we hate.
Narcissa's nature, tolerably mild,

To make a wash, would hardly stew a child;
Has ev'n been proved to grant a lover's pray'r,
And paid a tradesman once to make him stare;
Gave alms at Easter in a Christian trim,

And made a widow happy for a whim.

Wise wretch! with pleasures too refin❜d to please; With too much spirit to be e'er at ease;

With too much quickness ever to be taught,

With too much thinking to have common thought :
You purchase pain with all that joy can give,
And die of nothing but a rage to live,