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I LOVE it, I love it ; and who shall dare

To chide me for loving that old Arm-chair ?

I've treasured it long as a sainted prize ;

I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed 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 hour I lingered near

The hallowed seat with listening ear ;

And gentle words that mother would 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 eye grew dim, and her locks were grey :

And I almost worshipped her when she smiled,

And turned from her Bible, to bless her child.

Years rolled on; but the last one sped--

My idol was shattered; my earth-star fled :

I learnt how much the heart can bear,

When I saw her die in that 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 Memory 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.


-
Eliza Cook