AGATHA.
319
Little maidens old, sweet dreams!
Sleep one sleep till morning beams.
Mothers ye, who help us all,
Quick at hand, if ill befall.
Holy Gabriel, lily-laden,
Bless the aged mother-maiden!
Forward, mount the broad hillside
Swift as soldiers when they ride.
See the two towers how they peep,
Round-capped giants, o'er the steep.
Heart of Mary, by thy sorrow,
Keep us upright through the morrow!
Now they rise quite suddenly
Like a man from bended knee,
Now Saint Märgen is in sight.
Here the roads branch off—good-night.
Heart of Mary, by thy grace,
Give us with the saints a place!
