14 THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. The cottage door is opened-the Collier's step is heard; THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. I love it, I love it; and who shall dare I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs. Not a tie will break, not a link will start. Would ye learn the spell? A mother sat there; 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; I sat and watched her many a day, When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray; Say it is folly, and deem me weak, While the scalding drops start down my cheek; My soul from a mother's old Arm-chair. 1 Sainted, sacred. 2 Lava, burning. Lava is the molten substance which issues from the Eliza Cook. crater of a volcano during an eruption; the burning griefs of memory are likened to a stream of lava. ADDRESS TO THE CUCKOO. Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove! And woods thy welcome sing. 16 ADDRESS TO THE CUCKOO. What time the daisy decks the green, Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowers, The schoolboy, wandering through the wood, What time the pea puts on the bloom, An annual guest in other lands, Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, Oh! could I fly, I'd fly with thee! We'd make, with joyful wing, Logan. BUILDING ON THE SAND. 'Tis well to woo, 'tis good to wed, But have a care, ye young and fair— For if ye give not heart for heart, You'll find you've played the 'unwise' part, 'Tis well to save, 'tis well to have A goodly store of gold; And hold enough of shining stuff, But place not all your hope and trust And he who piles up wealth alone, 'Tis built upon the sand.' "Tis good to speak in kindly guise, And soothe where'er we can; But stay not at the gentle words; B His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, And children coming home from school They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor. |