The Arm Chair

Excerpt

THE ARM CHAIR.

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,"
ThatLetchworthis "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.
HereHarrison[] has spoke of what she saw
In visions deep, when filled with holy awe,
The curtain of the future half withdrew,
While coming objects glided into view;
Or as the past on memory's tablet rose,
Rehearsed her gospel joys, her gospel woes.
Told how King George, as gushed the hidden springs,
Bowed at her message from the King of kings;
Of deep probations for her Lord she past;
Of her fond hope of joining him at last.
Told how her soul, in sympathy, had long
Borne a deep burthen for the negro's wrong,
'Till the church freed her at her Master's will,
In southern states love's purpose to fulfil.
With gospel power for Truth and right she spoke,
'Till slumbering consciences to feeling woke,
Oppressors' hearts with justice learned to beat,
While bondmen's shackles fell beneath their feet.
Her's was a righteous mission; to the door
Of selfish masters she her message bore;
She shot no fiery missiles from afar,
Kindling those feelings that engender war,
But face to face Truth's message would impart,
Whilst love-tipped arrows entered many a heart;
Thus won she freedom for the sore oppressed;
Her work was honoured and her labour blessed.
—Or as the present did her thoughts engage,
Gave to her juniors dear-bought counsel sage.
Bade her loved niece preserve in vessel pure,
Her sacred gift, and make her calling sure;
Bade her true partner as an Aaron be,
Uphold her hands, support her ministry....