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Without a mother's tender care,
And not a tittle does it know
What kind of world 't is come into.
The lambs sport gayly on the grass
To nurse the Dolly, gayly drest,
Full many a summer's sun must glow
To anything of size;
And all the while the mother's eye
Must every little want supply.
Then surely, when each little limb
And youth and manhood strengthen him
His mother's kindness is a debt,
He never, never will forget.
LITTLE baby, lay your head
Yes, my darling, well I know
For the window shutteth fast,
THE OLD ARM-CHAIR
I LOVE it! I love it! and who shall dare
"T is bound by a thousand bands to my heart; Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell?-a mother sat there,
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.
In childhood's hour I linger'd near
And gentle words that mother would give,
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
I sat and watch'd her many a day,
And I almost worshipp'd her when she
And turn'd from her Bible to bless her child.
Years roll'd on, but the last one sped-
"Tis past! 't is past! but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow: 'Twas there she nursed me, 't was there she died;
And memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love, I love it! and cannot tear