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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 treasured 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 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 grey : 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 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.

Poem by Eliza Cook
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