My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.  

 

     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 cherished 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 that shame would never betide,  

   With truth for my creed and God for my guide;  

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