DAIRY POETRY.
To the Editor.
Sir,—You may perhaps think the “Old Arm Chair” worthy a place in your amusing columns. It is the production of a self-taught, or natural genius, like Bloomfield, living in the fens of this place, and carrying on the business of a small dairyman.
Isle of Ely, Yours obediently,
Aug. 14, 1827. M. W.
THE OLD ARM CHAIR.
See Table Book, [vol. i. p. 786].
What recollections of the past,
Of scenes gone by, and days that were,
Crowd through my mind whene’er I cast
A look upon my father’s chair.
How often have I climb’d his knees
To pat his cheek, and stroke his hair;
The kind paternal kiss to seize,
When seated in this old arm chair.
And much of monitory lore,
Which bade me of the world beware;
His tongue has utter’d o’er and o’er,
When seated in this old arm chair.
When ev’ning call’d us round the hearth.
And storms disturb’d the wintry air;
What merry tales of social mirth
Have issued from this old arm chair.
With summer’s toil and heat o’ercome,
When weary nature sought repair;
Oft has he thrown his languid frame,
Exhausted, in this old arm chair.
When adverse fortune cross’d his road,
And bow’d him down with anxious care;
How has he sigh’d beneath the load,
When seated in this old arm chair.
But death long since has clos’d his eyes;
And peacefully he slumbers, where
A grassy turf is seen to rise,
And fills no more this old arm chair.
Ev’n that which does those scenes recall,
Which age and wasting worms impair
Must shortly into pieces fall,
And cease to be an old arm chair.
Yet while its smallest parts remain,
My fancy shall behold him there;
And memory stir those thoughts again,
Of him who fill’d the old arm chair.
For the Table Book.