"But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!"


* * * * *




_53_


chide
be dewed'
em balmed'
be tide'
lin' gered
wor' shiped



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 treasured it long as a sainted prize;
I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs.
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.