THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

125

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 eyes grew dim, and her locks were
gray;

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 tears run down my cheek;
But I love it- I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from my mother's old arm-chair.

Eliza Cook.

LONGINGS FOR HOME.

SONG of a boat:

There was once a boat on a billow:

Lightly she rocked to her port remote,

And the foam was white in her wake like

snow,

And her frail mast bowed when the breeze

would blow,

And bent like the wand of willow.

I shaded mine eyes, one day, when a boat
Went curtseying over the billow;

I marked her course till a dancing mote
She faded out on the moonlit foam,
And I stayed behind in the dear loved home;
And my thoughts all day were about the boat,
And my dreams upon the pillow.

LONGINGS FOR HOME. 127

I pray you hear my song of a boat,
For it is but short; -

My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat,
In river or port.

Long I looked out for the lad she bore,
On the open, desolate sea,

And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore,
For he came not back to me,

Ah, me!

There was once a nest in a hollow; Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed, Soft and warm, and full to the brim Vetches leaned over it purple and dim, With buttercup buds to follow.

I pray you hear my song of a nest,
For it is not long;-

You shall never light, in a summer quest
The bushes among

Shall never light on a prouder sitter,

A fairer nestful, nor ever know
A softer sound than their tender twitter,
That wind-like did come and go.

I had a nestful once of my own,
Ah happy, happy I!

Right dearly I loved them; but when they were grown

128 LONGINGS FOR HOME.

They spread out their wings to fly-
O, one after one they flew away,
Far up to the heavenly blue,

To the better country, the upper day,
And I wish I was going too.

I pray you, what is the nest to me,
My empty nest?

And what is the shore where I stood to see
My boat sail down to the west?

Can I call that home where I anchor yet, Though my good man has sailed?

Can I call that home where my nest was set, Now all its hope has failed?

Nay, but the port where my sailor went, And the land where my nestlings be: There is the home where my thoughts are

sent,

The only home for me, -
Ah, me!

Fean Ingelow.

OW dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood,

When fond recollection presents them to view!

The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wildwood,

And every loved spot which my infancy knew!

The wide spreading pond, and the mill that that stood by it,

The bridge and the rock where the cataract

fell,

The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, which hung in