I did not tell anyone what troubled me, but stole
back to my bed, resolved to rise early in the morning
and tell her how sorry I was for my conduct.
The sun was shining brightly when I awoke, and, hurrying
on my clothes, I hastened to my mother’s chamber.
She was dead! She never spoke more—never
smiled upon me again; and when I touched the hand that
used to rest upon my head in blessing, it was so cold
that it made me start.
I bowed down by her side, and sobbed in the bitterness
of my heart. I then wished that I might die,
and be buried with her; and, old as I now am, I would
give worlds, were they mine to give, could my mother
but have lived to tell me she forgave my childish
ingratitude. But I cannot call her back; and
when I stand by her grave, and whenever I think of
her manifold kindness, the memory of that reproachful
look she gave me will bite like a serpent and sting
like an adder.
* * * *
*
Memory Gem:
“But
O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the
sound of a voice that is still!”
* * * *
*
53
chide be dewed’ em balmed’ be tide’
lin’ gered wor’ shiped
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 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
worshiped 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 learned
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.
