Sunbury American. [volume] (Sunbury, Pa.) 1848-1879, 1855-12-08

Inc North Br tish Review pronounces
this poem the best that has ever been writ.
ten by an American author.
Within this sober realm of leafless tree.
The rnsset year inhaled the dreamy air.
Like some tanned reaper in his bonr Of ease,
When all the fields are lying brown aud
bare.
The gray barns, looking from their hazy hills
Ger the dim waters widening in tie wales,
Sent down the air u greeting to the mills,
On the dull thunder Of alternate fails.
All sights were mcllowed, and all sounds
suh,lned.
The hills seemed farther, and the streams
sang low;
As in dream, the distant woodman hewd
His winter log with many u muflled blow.
Tn embnttled forests erewhile armed in
Their banners bright with every martial
hue,
Now stood like some sad beaten host of old,
Withdrawn aiar in Times remotest blue.
On slumbrous wings the vulture tried his
flight;
The dove scarce heard his signing mates
complaint;
And like u star slow drowning in the light,
The village church vane seemed to pale
and faint.
The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew.
Crew thrice and all was stiler than be-
Silent till some replying wanderer blew
Ills alien horn, and then was heard no
more,
While erst the jay within the clms tall crest
Made garrulous trouble round the un-
hedged young;
And where the oriole hung her swaying nest.
by every light wind like censor swung.
Where sang the noisy masons of the caves,
The busy swallows circling ever near,
Foreboding. as the rustic mind believes,
An early harvest and ii plenteous year;
Where .very bird which charmed the vernal
feast
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at
morn,
To warn the rcapers of the rosy east,
All now was songless, empty and torlorn.
And croakd the crow through all the
Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale,
Made echo to the distant cottage loom
There was no bud, no bloom upon the bow
ers;
The spider wove their thin shroud night
by night;
The thistle down, the only ghost of flowers,
Sailed slowly by-passed noiseless out OF
sight
Amid all ths--in this most cherries air
And where the woodbine sheds upon the
porch
lis crimson leaves, as if the year stood
| there.
Firing the floor with his inverted torch
Amid all this, the centre of the scene,
| The white haired matron, with monotonous
| tread
Piled the swift wheel, and with her joyou.
mien
Sat like fate and watched the flying
thread.
She had known sorrow. He had walked
with her,
OFT supped, and broke with her the asher
| crust,
And, in the dead leaves, still she heard tn,
| Stlr.
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust.
While yet her cheek was bright with summe
bloom,
Her country summoned and she gave he
all,
And twice war bowed to her his sabl
plume;
He gave the swords to rest upon the wall
Re-gave the swords-but not the hand tina
drew
And struck for liberty the dying blow;
Nor him, who to his sire and country true,
Fell mid the ranks Of the invading lue
Long, but not loud the dronng wheel wen
| on,
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon
Long, but not loud, the memory Of the gon,
Breathed through her lips sud un
tremuluus tune.
At last the thread was snapped, and he
head was how'd;
Life dropped the distuf through his hand
serene;
And loving neighbors smoothed her caref,
shruud