The Arm Chair

The history of these rhymes is briefly this.—An Arm Chair, made many years ago by John Letchworth, for Leonard and Jane Snowdon, was presented to the Author, with some information of the worthies who were wont to visit the estimable owners; accompanied with an intimation that it would be a suitable theme for some verses. The result follows.

Cowper , the poet of the Christian muse, Sung of the Sofa; could I but infuse Some of his talent in my laggard quill, Some of his genius on my verse distil, Then would I sing,—my theme too from the fair,— Of thy coevals, rhyme-creating chair!
He who with artist's skill scooped out thy seat, Trim made thy elbows, uprights, and thy feet, Now fourscore years and four has measured o'er, And waits his summons to the heavenly shore. Honest as sunshine, he who runs may read, That Letchworth is an Israelite indeed; No guile within him ever finds a place, Love of the Father spreads to all the race. His gospel ministry is void of show, For few and savory are the words that flow: Condensed and pithy are his periods found, Rich in their matter, nothing for mere sound. So preaches he. Ah, what a sad mistake, When empty sounds upon the people break, When a stentorian voice in efforts vain, Roars to the people,—thunder without rain! Its booming echoes may the soul appal, But no reviving showers on nature fall. —Would that my age,—if age to me be given,— Might prove like his, who calmly looks to heaven, Waiting with patience for the mandate blessed, Thy labour finished, enter into rest! Here, said the patriarch, no more doomed to range, Quiet I lie, waiting my final change. Go when thou wilt, thy faithful life will prove, A rich example, legacy of love!
Ah, my Arm Chair, supporter of the good, Beneath how many a worthy hast thou stood! Bear me awhile, assist me to portray, Some of the faithful who have passed away.
Here Scattergood , when evening came at length, From the day's toil reposed his weary strength; From Christian sympathy that solace drew, Which those can grant who heavenly joys pursue. Mournful of spirit, he was ever found, In sympathy with souls by sorrow bound. As fell his plaintive voice upon the ear, The poor in spirit felt a friend was near. Prompt in his duty at the house of prayer, To plead with fervour for his Master there, While crowds hung trembling on that zealous tongue, Which only woke as living waters sprung. He never preached himself,—his every word Directed to a slain and risen Lord. He to the weary consolation brought, He for the burthened sweet deliverance wrought; Though bound himself, the fettered oft set free,— The Jeremiah of his age was he!