Poems Sigourney 1827/To an ancient Rocking Chair

by Lydia Sigourney

TO AN ANCIENT ROCKING CHAIR.

Whom have thy curving arms embraced
    Thou ancient, stately chair?
Since first thy form the parlor graced
    And claim'd the housewife's care.

For full a century, I ween,
    Its mighty round has made,
Since first thy columns black and sheen
    Their maker's skill display'd.

The slippery Sofa's glossy dress
    Allures the weary wight,
But soon his sliding limbs confess
    Their most uneasy plight,—

Though still it decks the modern hall
    The eye of taste to please:
While thou, a favourite art of all
    Who love the balm of ease.

On thee, the invalid reclined,
    His form by sickness chain'd,
Though haply still, his soaring mind
    Its prison house disdain'd,—

And wandering wide o'er fairy land
    Collected rainbow rays,
Or waked with memory's magic wand
    Fair forms of other days.

Here has some ancient maiden bright
    Repell'd encroaching Time,
Ensconced in stiff-laced stays upright
    With high-heel'd shoe sublime.

And here the meeker matron view'd
    Her children trooping round,
Who guide with shouts of laughter rude
    The ball's elastic bound,—

Anon to aid their sports would spread
    Her gay-flower'd ample gown,
Or at their quarrels shake her head
    And awe them with a frown.

Here, in thy arms,—the nodding nurse
    Has slumber'd out the night,
Regardless of the mutter'd curse
    Of the poor, gouty wight;

Or frighten'd from her stolen dream
    Has heard in deep dismay
The falling infant's piteous scream
    Who on her bosom lay.

Here beauty, like some blighted flower
    Smit by unfriendly sky,
Consumed the wakeful,—restless hour
    With bright, unearthly eye.

While on her cheek, the hectic glow
    Dire symbol of decay,
Reveal'd how fast the treacherous foe
    Was mining on his way.

Ah!—wouldst thou speak,—thou ancient Chair,
    What secrets couldst thou tell?
Of hidden Love's mysterious care
    Breathed in thy hermit cell.

What mad resolves,—what deep-laid schemes
    What fancies bold and free,—
What dazzling hopes, and airy dreams
    Were born and died with thee.

Then wouldst thou chide her idle rhyme,
    Who lolling thus at ease,
Mispends the untold wealth of time
    In lays so light as these.

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