The Perrysburg journal. [volume] (Perrysburg, Ohio) 1853-1861, 1854-11-04
The Closing Scene.
by T. BUCHANAN READ.

The North British Review pronounces this poem
the best that has ever been written by an American
author
Within this sober realm of leahess trees,
The russell year inhaled the dreamy 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
Der the dim waters widening i'll the wales,
Sent down the air 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
A in dream, the distant woodman hew'd low
His winter log, with many mutfied blow.
Th' embattled forests erstwhile armed in gold,
Their banners bright with every martial hue,
Now stood, like some sad beaten host of old,
Withdrawn afar i'll Times remotest blue.
On slumbrous wings the vulture tried his flight;
The dove scarce heard his signing mates COM
And like "A star, slow drowning in the light plant
The village church-yane seemed to pale and faint.
The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew;
Grew thrice, and all was ster than before
Silent till some replying wanderer blew
His alien horn, and then was heard no more.
Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest
Made garrulous trouble around the un1edged
And where the orole hung her swaying nest [young;
BY every light wind like censer swung;
Where sang the noisy masons of the caves,
The busy swallows crcng near,
Ioreboding, rs the rustinc mind believes,
An early harvest and plenteouS year;
Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn,
TO warn the reapers of the rosy east,
All now was songless, empty and forlorn
a lone, from out the stubble piped the quail,
And cruakd the crow, through all the dreary
Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, [gloom
Made echo to the distant cottage loom.
There was no bud no bloom upon the bowers
The spiders their thin shrouds night by night;
The thistle down, the only ghost of flowers
Sailed slowly by-passed, noseess, out of sight.
Amid all this-in this most cherries air
And where the woodbine sheds upon the porch
ITS crimson leaves, if the year stood there,
Firing the floor with his inverted torch
Amid all this the center of the scene,
The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread,
Piled the swift wheel and, with her jjoyless mein,
Sat like Fate, and watched the flying thread.
She had known sorrow. He had walked with her.
Oft supped. and broke with her the ashen crust
And. in the dead leaves, still she heard the stir
OF 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;
He gave the swords, to rest upon the wall.
Re-gave the swords-but not the hand that drew
And struck for liberty the dying blow;
Nor him, who to his sire and country true,
Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe.
Long but not loud, the droning wheel went on,
Like the low musmurs of hive at noon;
Long but not loud, the memory of the gone [tune.
Breathed through her lips sad and tremulous
At last the thread was snapped her head was how'd;
Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene;
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud
While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene.