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THE OLD ARM CHAIR.
I love it, I love it, and who shall dare
ye learn the spell?—a mother sat there, And a sacred thing is that old arm chair.
In childhood's home, I lingered near
I sat and watched her many a day,
Years rolled on, but the last one sped
'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 sings his melodious woes.
Within the bounds of an earthly king; No lovelier skies have ever shone
Than those that illumine its constant spring.
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;
And I, too, cease to mourn my love.
"O, many a year, so wakeful and drear,
I have sorrowed and watched, beloved, for thee!