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I love it, I love it, and who shall dare
To chide me for loving the old arm chair?
I've treasur'd it long as a holy prize,
I've bedew'd it with tears, and embalm'd it with

'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start,

ye learn the spell?—a mother sat there, And a sacred thing is that old arm chair.

In childhood's home, I lingered near
The hallow'd seat with list'ning ear;
And gentle words would mother 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 eyes grew dim, and her locks were gray.
And I almost worship’d her when she smiled,
And turn'd from her bible to bless her child.

Years rolled on, but the last one sped
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled;
I learned how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in the 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 mem’ry 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.



The spice-tree lives in the garden green;

Beside it the fountain flows;
And a fair bird sits the boughs between,

And sings his melodious woes.
No greener garden e'er was known

Within the bounds of an earthly king; No lovelier skies have ever shone

Than those that illumine its constant spring.


'Tis past; 'tis past; but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow.–Page 18.




That coil-bound stem has branches three;

On each a thousand blossoms grow; And, old as aught of time can be,

The root stands fast in the rocks below.

In the spicy shade ne'er seems to tire

The fount that builds a silvery dome; And flakes of purple and ruby fire

Gush out, and sparkle amid the foam.

The fair white bird of flaming crest,

And azure wings bedropt with gold, Ne'er has he known a pause of rest,

But sings the lament that he framed of old:

“O princess bright! how long the night

Since thou art sunk in the waters clear! How sadly they flow from the depth below,

How long must I sing and thou wilt not hear?

“The waters play, and the flowers are gay,

And the skies are sunny above;
I would that all could fade and fall,

And I, too, cease to mourn my love.

"O, many a year, so wakeful and drear,

I have sorrowed and watched, beloved, for thee!

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