And memory flows with lava tide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak

While the scalding tears drop down my cheek:

But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear

My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

[!-- H2 anchor --]

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

I love it, I love it, and who shall dare

To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?

I've cherished it long as a sainted prize;