Demoine courier., 1855-07-19
OETICAL.
THE CLOSING SCENE.
BY T. READ.


-
BY T. READ.
(The North British Review pronounces this
poem the best that has ever been written by an
American author;
Within this sober realm of ~leafless 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 looked from their hazy hills
O'er the dim waters widening in the wales,
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills,
On the dull thunder Of alternate fails.
All signs were melowed, and all sounds sub
dued,
The hills seemed farther, and, the streams
sang low.
As in a dream the distant woodman hew'd
His winters log with many mutfled brow.
The embattled forests erewhile armed in gold.
Their banners bright with every martial hue,
Now stood, like some sad beaten host of old,
Withdrawn afar in Times remotest blue.
On slumblrous wings the ~vulture tried his flight;
The dove scarce heard his singing mates
complaint;
And like a star slow drowning in the light,
The village church vane seemed to pale and
faint
The sentinel cock upon the Hill side crew,
Crew twice and all was stiller than before
Silent till some replying warder blew
His ellen horn, and thpn was heard no more.
Where earst the jay within the elIh's tall crest
Made garrulous trouble round the unfedged
young
And where the oriole hung her swaying nest
BY every light wind like a censor swung.
Where sang the noisy masons Of the caves,
The busy swallows sing ever near,
Fcreboding, as the rustic mind believes,
And early harvest and a plenteous year.
When every bird which charmed the vernai
feast
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at
morn
To warn the reapers of the rosy east,
All now was songless, empty and ~forlern.
Alone, from out the stubble, piped the quail,
And croaked the crow, through all the drea-
ry gloom;
Alone, the pheasant drumming in the vale,
Made echo TO the d slant cottage loom.
There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers;
The spiders woye their thin shrouds night by
night,
The thistle down, the only ghost of flowers,
Sailed slowly by--passed n~oiseless out of
sight.
And all this-in this most cherries air,
And where the woodbine sheds upon the
porcM
It's crimson leaves, as if the year stood there,
Firing the flower with his inverted torch.
Amid all this, the centre of the scene,
The white haired matron, with monotonous
tread,
P!ied'the swift wheel and with.her joyless mein
Sat like a fate, and watched the dying thread
She had no sorrow. He had walked with her
OFT snpped-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 sable plume,
Re-gave the sword, to rust upon the wall.
Re-gave the sword-but not the hand that drew
And struck for Liberty the dying blows.
Not 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 murmurs of hive at noon;
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone
Breathes through her lips a sad and tremu-
lous tune.
AT last the thread was snapped, her head was
bowed;
Life dropped the distaff through her hand:
serene,
AMI loving n~eighbors smoothed her careful
shroud,
While death and winter closed the Autumn
Scene.