Page:The poems of George Eliot (Crowell, 1884).djvu/349

 Rh 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!