I’ve bedew’d it with tears, I’ve embalm’d it with sighs!
’Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start;
Would you know the spell?—a mother sat there!
A sacred thing is that old arm-chair.
In childhood’s hour I linger’d near
The hallow’d seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me that shame would never betide,