The Ashland union. [volume] (Ashland, Ashland County, Ohio) 1854-1868, 1855-03-28
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THE CLOSING SCENE.
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The North British Review prOnOsnees this pOm'
the best that has ever been written by an American
author:
When this sober realm oil lee fless trees,
The russet 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, locking from their hazy hills
Ger the din waters widening in the wales,
Seat down the air greeting OF mills,
3 On the dull thunder Of alternate fails.
All sishts we re mellowed. and all sounds sub
s.ls dued. H7es
TAs hills seemed farther. and the streams sang
ioT;
As in dream, the distant woodman hew'd
His winter log, with many mufied blow.
Tn 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Withdrawn afar in Times remotest blue.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 'slumb'rous wings the vulture tried hlI flight
The dove scarce heard his singing mates COM
plaint;
And like star slow dro W ming in the light,
The village church vane seemed to pale and faint
The sentinel cock upon the hill side crew;
Crew thrice. and all was stilIer than before
Silent still some replying wsnderer blew
His alien horn, and then was heard no more
where est the jay within the eIm's tall crest
Made gzrrulous trouble around the unfledged
young;
And where the oriole hung her sHaying nest
BY every ligaL wind like a ceEseT eng:
Where sang the noisy masons OF the caves,
The busy swallows circling ever near,
Foreboding as the rustic mind believes
An early harvest and pIenteous year;
Where every bird which charmed the vern.l
feast
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn
To warn the reapers Of the rosy east,
And now was songless, empty and forlorn,
Alone. from out the stubble piped the quail.
= And crcaAd the crow through all the dreary
gloom:
Alone the pleasant: drumming in the vaIc.
Madeeeho to distant cottage loom.
There was no bud no bloom upon the bowers
The spider wOvs their thin shIouds night by
night.
The thistle down. tho only ghost of flowers.
Sailed slowly by passed noiseless OF sight.
Amid all ihis-in this most che, rless air.
And where the woodbine sheds Upon the porch
Firing the noor with itsInverted torch
Amid all this. the centre ofthe scene.
The Hhite-haired matronSf with monotonous
s- tread.
Piled the swift wheel, and with her joyless mein
Sat like Fate, and watched the dying thread.
She had known sorrow. He had walked with
her,
on supped, and broke with her the asheu crust,
And, in tho dead leaves, still she heard the stir
or his black mantle trailing in the dust.
While } ct her check as bright with summer bloom
Her country summoned and she gave her all,
Z And twice wsr bowed to her his sable plume
He gave the swords, TO rest upon the wall.
Re gave the swords-but 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 f3c.
Long. but not loud. the droning wheel went on
Like the low nlurmurs OF a hive at noon
Long, but rot loud, the memory of the gone
Bresthed= through her lips sad and tremulous
tune.
At iast the thread was snapped, her head was
bowed;
Life dropped the distaf through his hands seroue
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shzoud
While Death and winter closed the autumn
scene.