The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1852-12-18
The Closing Scene.
BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

Wltlln MS SODeT realm OF leaHeSS trees
The russell Year inhaled the drcary air,
Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease,
When all the fields are lying brown and bare
The gray barns, looking from their hazy hills
Ger the dim waters widening in the wales.
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills
On The dull thunder of alternate fails.
All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued;
The hills seemed farther and the streams sang
low;
As in dream, the distant woodman hewed
His winter log with many mufIleG blow.
The emba!tled Forests erewhile armed in gold,
Their banners bright with every martial hue,
Now stood like some sad beaten host of old
Withdrawn aiur in Times remolest blue.
On slumberous wings the vulture held his fight:
The dove scarce heard his signing mates
complaint;
And, like a star slow drowning in the light,
The village chuIch-vane seemed to pale and
faint.
The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew
Crew thrice, and all was s,iller than before;
Silent, till som" replying warder blew
His allen horn, and then was heard no more.
Where erst the jay, within the elms tall crest,
Made garrulous trouble round her unnedged
young;
And where the oriole hung her swaylns nest,
By every light wind like censor swung:-
Where sung the noisy masons Of the ewes,
The busy swallows, clrcling ever near,
aS ,nstIp Il hall
An early harvest and plenteous year:-
Where every bird that charmed the vernal feast,
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings al
morn,
And warned the reaper of the rosy east
All now was sonsless, empty and lororn.
Alone from out the subble piped the quail,
While croaked the crow through all the
dreamy gloom;
Alone the pheasant drumming in the vale
Made echo to the distant cottage loom,
There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers,
The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by
night,
The this,lc-down, the only ghost Of flowers,
Sailed slowly by-passed no .scless oul ofsisht
Amid all this, in this most cherries air,
And where the woodbine shed upon the porch,
Its crimson leaves, as 1.-THE year stood there
Firing the floor with his inverted torch;-
Amid all this, the centre orthe scene,
The white-halred matron, with monotonous
tread
Piled the swift wheel, and with her joyless men,
Sat, like Fate, and watched The tying thread.
She had know Sorrow: He had walked with
her,
OFT supped and broke the bitter ashen crust;
And IN the dead leaves still she heard the stir
vi his black mantle trailing in the dust.
While yet her cheek was bright with summer
bloom
Her country summoned, and she gave her all;
And twice War bowed to her his sable plume
Re-save the swords to rust upon her wall.
Re-gave the swords; but not the hand that drew,
And struck for Liberty its dying blow;
Nor him who, 10 his sire and country true,
Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe.
Long, but not loud, the dronlng wheel went on,
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon;
Long, but no, loud, the memory of the gone
Breathed through her lips sad and tremu-
lOus tune.
AT last the thread was snapped-hcr head was
bowed,
Life dropped the distaf through his hands
serene
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful!
shroud,
While Death and Winter closed the Autumn
scene.