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Poem
April 23, 1873
The Daily Phoenix
Columbia, Richland County, South Carolina
What is this article about?
A mother's lament for her deceased infant, expressing profound grief, jealousy towards heavenly guardians, and pleas for divine forgiveness and vision of her child's angelic form.
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OCR Quality
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Full Text
A Mother's Wail,
BY HENRY TIMROD.
My babe! my babe! my only babe!
My single rose-bud in a crown of thorns!
My lamp that in that narrow hut of life,
Whence I looked forth upon a night of storm,
Burned with the lustre of the moon and stars!
My babe! my tiny babe! my only babe!
Behold, the bud is gone! the thorns remain!
My lamp has fallen from its niche -- ah, me!
Earth drinks the fragrant flame, and I am left
Forever and forever, in the dark!
My babe! my babe! my own and only babe!
Where art thou now? If somewhere in the sky
An angel hold thee in his radiant arms,
I challenge him to clasp thy tender form
With half the fervor of a mother's love.
Forgive me, Lord! forgive my reckless grief;
Forgive me that this rebel, selfish heart
Would almost make me jealous for my child,
Though my own lap enthroned him;
Lord, thou hast so many -- such! I have, ah!
had but one
O yet once more, my babe, to hear thy cry!
O yet once more, my babe; to see thy smile!
O yet once more to feel against my breast
Those cool soft hands, that warm, wet eager
mouth
With the sweet sharpness of its budding
pearl.
But it must never, never more be mine.
To mark the growing meaning in thine eyes-
To watch thy soul unfolding leaf by leaf,
Or catch, with ever fresh surprise and joy,
Thy dawning recognitions of the world.
Three different shadows of thyself, my babe,
Change with each other while I weep. The
first,
The sweetest, yet the not less fraught with
pain,
Clings like my loving babe around my neck,
Or purrs and murmurs softly at my feet.
Another is a little mound of earth:
That comes the oftenest, darling.
In my
dreams
I see it beaten with the mid-night rain.
Or chilled beneath, the moon. Ah, what a
couch
For that which I have shielded from a breath
That would not stir the violets on thy grave!
The third, my precious babe! the third, O
Lord,
Is a fair cherub face beyond the stars,
Wearing the roses of a mystic bliss;
Yet, sometimes not unclouded by a glance,
Turned earthward on a mother in her woe:
This is the vision, Lord, that I would keep
Before me always, But, alas! as yet
It is the dimmest and the rarest. too:
O touch my sight, or break the cloudy bars
That hide it, lest I madden where I kneel.
BY HENRY TIMROD.
My babe! my babe! my only babe!
My single rose-bud in a crown of thorns!
My lamp that in that narrow hut of life,
Whence I looked forth upon a night of storm,
Burned with the lustre of the moon and stars!
My babe! my tiny babe! my only babe!
Behold, the bud is gone! the thorns remain!
My lamp has fallen from its niche -- ah, me!
Earth drinks the fragrant flame, and I am left
Forever and forever, in the dark!
My babe! my babe! my own and only babe!
Where art thou now? If somewhere in the sky
An angel hold thee in his radiant arms,
I challenge him to clasp thy tender form
With half the fervor of a mother's love.
Forgive me, Lord! forgive my reckless grief;
Forgive me that this rebel, selfish heart
Would almost make me jealous for my child,
Though my own lap enthroned him;
Lord, thou hast so many -- such! I have, ah!
had but one
O yet once more, my babe, to hear thy cry!
O yet once more, my babe; to see thy smile!
O yet once more to feel against my breast
Those cool soft hands, that warm, wet eager
mouth
With the sweet sharpness of its budding
pearl.
But it must never, never more be mine.
To mark the growing meaning in thine eyes-
To watch thy soul unfolding leaf by leaf,
Or catch, with ever fresh surprise and joy,
Thy dawning recognitions of the world.
Three different shadows of thyself, my babe,
Change with each other while I weep. The
first,
The sweetest, yet the not less fraught with
pain,
Clings like my loving babe around my neck,
Or purrs and murmurs softly at my feet.
Another is a little mound of earth:
That comes the oftenest, darling.
In my
dreams
I see it beaten with the mid-night rain.
Or chilled beneath, the moon. Ah, what a
couch
For that which I have shielded from a breath
That would not stir the violets on thy grave!
The third, my precious babe! the third, O
Lord,
Is a fair cherub face beyond the stars,
Wearing the roses of a mystic bliss;
Yet, sometimes not unclouded by a glance,
Turned earthward on a mother in her woe:
This is the vision, Lord, that I would keep
Before me always, But, alas! as yet
It is the dimmest and the rarest. too:
O touch my sight, or break the cloudy bars
That hide it, lest I madden where I kneel.
What sub-type of article is it?
Elegy
What themes does it cover?
Death Mourning
Religious Faith
What keywords are associated?
Mother Grief
Child Death
Infant Loss
Heavenly Vision
Divine Forgiveness
What entities or persons were involved?
By Henry Timrod.
Poem Details
Title
A Mother's Wail
Author
By Henry Timrod.
Subject
Mother's Grief For Deceased Babe
Key Lines
My Babe! My Babe! My Only Babe!
Behold, The Bud Is Gone! The Thorns Remain!
Forgive Me, Lord! Forgive My Reckless Grief;
O Yet Once More, My Babe, To Hear Thy Cry!
The Third, My Precious Babe! The Third, O Lord,