I love it, I love it; and who shall dareTo 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 nearThe 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 nowWith 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 tearMy soul from a mother's old arm-chair.
