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قراءة كتاب The Arm Chair
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THE ARM CHAIR.
"YOUR FATHERS, WHERE ARE THEY? AND THE
PROPHETS, DO THEY LIVE FOREVER?"
SECOND EDITION.
PHILADELPHIA—1843.
MEMORANDUM.
The history of these rhymes is briefly this.—An Arm Chair, made many years ago by John Letchworth, for Leonard and Jane Snowdon, was presented to the Author, with some information of the worthies who were wont to visit the estimable owners; accompanied with an intimation that it would be a suitable theme for some verses. The result follows.
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!
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,"
That Letchworth is "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!
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,"
That Letchworth is "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.
Beneath how many a worthy hast thou stood!
Bear me awhile, assist me to portray,
Some of the faithful who have passed away.
Here Harrison[1] has spoke of what she saw
In visions deep, when filled with holy awe,
In visions deep, when filled with holy awe,