University of Virginia Library

Lord give me children or I die—I die!
Thou art not childless, and to Thee I cry,
For blessings of the breasts and of the heart,
Like streams of joy that sterile pastures part.
I only ask Thee for the bright soft head
Turned slowly upward, with the tears unshed,
In laughing eyes that peep through fingers pink,
That turn and move the heart with many a link;
I only ask Thee for the climbing hands,
And clinging lips with infantine demands;
I only ask Thee, Lord, (be Thine the choice),
For just the blessing of a living voice,
And common comforts that are idly tost—
So lightly taken, and so lightly lost—
From hearth to hearth in humblest homes and ranks,
As things scarce worthy of our daily thanks.

For I am as a sad and barren field,
That men have ploughed, and yet it does not yield—
That men have sown, and yet it will not bear—
That rain and sun and no unkindly air
Have visited, and yet the niggard earth
Brings nought but thorns and thistles to the birth.
But (it may be) that to the latter dews,
Even at the last, it could not still refuse
A better growth—and as the seasons went,
Waxed fair and fruitful with glad sounds and scent;
And clothed itself with precious gold and corn,
To meet the pleasant kisses of the morn.

And I am childless among men, and go
Shamefaced and with a weight of voiceless woe,
And delicately tread in darkened ways;
Far from the trouble of rejoicing rays,
And childish prattle—fearing lest the dart
Of arrowy jests should pierce my stricken heart,
And mock my misery—hoping against hope,
The doors of mercy ere the night may ope.
While women taunt me, though they speak not loud;
And all my life is heavy with a cloud.
O Lord, have pity on my utter drouth!
And let me feel the little lips and mouth
Warm on my bosom, drawing life and love
(With sacred hidden joys) to light above,
From deep heart fountains. Blessed Lord, I long,
To murmur once the mother's cradle song;
To catch the baby kisses on my brows,
And sweet soft breath that answers tender vows
In mute caresses—yea, I long so much
To know the rapture of the kindling touch,
From something nestling in my happy arms,
And winning love with strange undreamed-of charms—
A portion of myself, this flesh and bone—
All, all my babe—my own, my very own,
And not another's. Give my hands to fold
The blind small fingers feeling for some hold,
And wandering dimly on their wondering way,
Half sounding the new world and half in play;
And grant the graces of the speaking eyes,
So round and big with pitiful surmise,
That plead for fondling. Grant the mother's name,
And trustful treasure of the loosening frame
That thaws in slumber, sliding to its rest;
Rising and falling on the heaving breast,
Life of my life. Let Mercy yield my prayer,
Bodied in leaping limbs and curling hair,
In lustrous glances—and the mimic show
Of striving, but with blessing in the blow,
More dear than salutations cheap and rife,
And careless kisses of the common life.
O Lord, I weary—weary for the sound
Of little feet that patter o'er the ground,
And echo on in many hopes and fears,
For ever and for ever through the years—
Through the long chambers of the loving soul,
In melodies that ripple as they roll
With waves of welcome—through the dreamlit lands,
That open at the knock of little hands,
And flood the world with sunshine, when the day
Is blindly groping on its shadowy way—
Through hearth and home and the memorial breast,
And mingling with the music of the Blest.

Now send the latter dews and evening light,
And make the silence beautiful and bright,
With voices that a glamour backward cast,
That people with their chimes the empty past,
And knit it to the present—till I be,
A living part of all the joy I see:
With voices—voices—that I hear from far,
Between the moonrise and the morning star,
Like angels calling to the saint forlorn—
Those heavenly voices of the babes unborn.
And though the day be wondrous sad and long,
“At last” there surely “comes the evensong.”

Lord, give me children, or I die—I die!
Thou art not childless, and to Thee I cry:
O hear me, hear me from Thy perfect peace,
Ere in the stillness of the grave I cease!
Lest men revile Thee, saying, “Lo, she prayed,
And no one answered, none would give her aid;
She called and no one listened—none would come,
Her Heaven was deaf and Mercy's message dumb.”
I faint with crying, and my heart is old;
And life is bitter, dark, and cold—so cold.
Even though my hope should slay me in its birth,
And bring me nothing of the after mirth
Or mother's music, I would not repent;
But giving life by death, were well content
To lay me down and cease a little space,
And leave the gift an offering unto Grace.
O bless me with the blessings of Thy love,
And blessings of the earth and from above—
With blessings of the breast and of the womb—
Those blessings that are borne beyond the tomb
Or touch of Time, and never-ending rills,
And “the utmost bound of the everlasting hills.”