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 treasur’d 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 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.