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 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 hour I linger'd near The hallow'd 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 watch'd her many a day, When her eye grew dim, and her locks were grey: 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 shatter'd; 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.
