The Old Arm-Chair

Eliza Cook (1818–1889)

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, I ’ve embalmed it with sighs.

’T is bound by a thousand bands to my heart;

Not a tie will break, not a link will start;

Would you know 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;

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 gray;

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 her old arm-chair.

’T is past, ’t is past! but I gaze on it now,

With quivering breath and throbbing brow:

’T was there she nursed me, ’t was there she died,

And memory flows with lava tide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

Whilst 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.