THE OLD ARM CHAIR.
I love it, I love it, and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm chair?
I've treasur'd it long as a holy prize,
I've bedew'd it with tears, and embalm'd it with sighs;
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start,
Would ye learn the spell?-a mother sat there,
And a sacred thing is that old arm chair.
In childhood's home, I lingered near
The hallow'd seat with list ning ear;
And gentle words would mother give,
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed, and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm chair.
I sat and watched her many a day.
When her eyes grew dim, and her locks were gray.
And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled,
And turn'd from her bible to bless her child.
Years roll'd on, but the last one sped-
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled;
I learned how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in the old arm chair.
'Tis past; 'tis past! but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath, and throbbing brow;
'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died,
And mem'ry flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm chair.