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النشر الإلكتروني

Sadly it told of broken ties,
Love buried in the grave,-
Solemnly, to the wanderer's eyes,
Its mournful lesson gave:

"Oh heedless youth, remember death!
All strength and health decay, —
Remember, ere life withereth,
For the poor dead to pray."

St Catherine's Well at Libberton.

A PALMER from the Holy Land
Came over Alps and seas,
Nor rested till his cheek was fanned
By Scotland's mountain breeze.

Weary and thankful, then he fell
Upon his native sod,

And kissed the ground, and sang full well
A hymn of praise to God.

Within the leathern scrip he wore,
The object of his toil,
From distant Palestine he bore
A vase of holy oil.

From blest St Catherine's relics flowed

Those drops of sacred balm ;

He prized them e'en beyond his rood,
His rosary or palm.

The abbess of St Catherine's near
Waited with anxious thought
For yonder pilgrim to appear
With relics so long sought.

But falling on the ground, alas!
The vase was broke in twain,
Bedewing Scotland's daisied grass
With that strange precious rain.

Sadly the palmer sighed to see
The guarded treasure lost
He brought from far so wearily,
Footsore, and tempest tossed.

But most he grieved, because he deemed His heedlessness a sin;

And weary hearts long hoped and dreamed That holy oil to win.

He prayed that it might be restored
To Scotland even still,

And that the sick who fear the Lord,
Resigned to all His will,

Might even yet draw comfort sweet
From blest St Catherine's aid,
Healing and strengthening unction meet :
'Twas thus the pilgrim prayed.

Then lo! beside his feet there welled,

From out the mossy sward,

A crystal rill, that spread and swelled-
His fervent prayer's reward.

And on its surface clear it bore,
Like chrism's holy oil,

The sacred balm, thus to restore
The fruit of his turmoil.

Long since, the palmer left the scenes
Of earthly praise or blame,

St Catherine's convent of the Sciennes
Exists now but in name.

Yet still that well of water flows,
Clear as its first bright drop,
And incense-perfumed oil it shows,
Still floating on the top.

H

The sick yet come from far and near, Whatever be their creed,

And no one to approach may fearIt helpeth all in need.

But let them not, departing, turn
Ungratefully away;

But from that temporal solace learn
To trust the saint alway.

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