The Bedford gazette. [volume] (Bedford, Pa.) 1805-current, 1857-11-06
THE CLOSING SCENE.
BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
poem subioii

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
Within the sober realm of lea1ess trees,
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air,
Like some tanned reaper IN his hour of ease,
When aHAey yfelds are lying Jroscn aud bare.
The gray Ja,as, looking trom their haey hills,
Der tie dim pcatsrs toidsning IN the raieS,
Ssat dozen ths air creating to tie ~iiHs,
on tie duu Munder of alternate fails.
AL sights ,oeys nsHoaced anu all sounds s~JdDed,
The Hills seemed further, aad the streams sang iow
As in dream the distant aooodnsam hsr0'd,
Has fcinter log, lritA many haH6Rsd hOW.
Th' embattIed 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Withdrawn afar in Times remotest blue.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 slumbrous wings the vulture tried his fight
The dove heard his signing mates complaint;
And like starslo,g, drowaing IN tie light,
The uiHage ntnrch-vane seemed to pale and Jaint
The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew;
Crew thrice, and all stiller than before
Silent till some replying warder blew
His alien horn, and then was heard no more.
Where erst the Jay within the em's tall crest
Made garruous trouble round her unhedged young;
A,,d tcAdre Me orioie hing her sacaying nest
By eUery light mind Ike a ceHser sul,tg;
Where sang tie noisy Of tie eaveS,
The busy sIcaiioos circi,ns eUey near,
Forebodng the rustic mind believes,
An early harvest and penteous year;
Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast,
Shook the s'eeet slumJey from ITS a0ings nlorn,
To warn the reapers of the rosy east,
All now was songless empty and forlorn.
Alone, from out the stubble piped the quail,
And croaked the crow throughall the dreary gloom.
Alone tie pheasant drumming im tie raie,
Made ecio to Me distant cottage loom.
There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers;
The spiders 'heir thin shrouds ight by night,
The histis-dowM, tie only ghost Of fol0srs,
Sailed sfowiy 5y-passed noissless of sight.
Am,d all Ais-,m this most cEserlsss air,
44nd wJleye the 'coodbine sheds apon the porch
It's crimson leares, sjf the yea5 stood there,
FtriHg the floor ruth lis inherited torch,-
Amid all this, the centre of the scene
The white haired matron with monotonous tread
Piled the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien,
Sat Ike Fate, and pqtched the flying threat.
She had known sorrow. He had walked with her,
Oft supped, and broke with her the ashen crust,
And, IN The dead teqUss, sill she Asard hs STIR
Ofhts hack mantle trailing in the dust.
While yet her cheek bright with summer bloom,
Her country summoned, and she gave her all
And twice war bowed to her his sable plume;
Regave the swords 10 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 l0W Of u hiyr at p,oon:
Long but not loud the memory OF the gone,
Breathed through her lips, sad and tremulous tune.
AT last the thread snapped, her head was boy'd
Life dropped the dstafi through his hands sereDe
| And loving neighbors smoohed her careful shroud;
While Death and Winter closed the Autumn scene
We have italicized those passages in this
| poem which seem TO us peculiarly striking
The whole allegory is masterpiece of poetic
art. It's beauty consists rather in quiet, bu, for
chile simIlrs, IN the simple sublimity of human
experience, than in the extravagance of meta
phor, or the lofty flights of Imagination. In
other words, as beauty as the beauty of truth. -
Nothing can be more truely poetic, becrase
nothing can be truer Of nature, than the lines
"Ihe thistledown, The only ghost of flowers,
Sailed slowly by, passed noiseess out of sight!''
A writer In the London .4theneup7. pronoun-
ced the ''Cosing Scene on its first publication
equal to Gray's immortal Elegy, which was,
indeed besowing upon it exalted praise. We
cannot go quite SO far, but we do say and be-
lleve that the theme aIlegorized in this poem
has never been more beautifully treated by any
living American poet.
THE MAGAZINES.
/ GRAHAM's ILLUSTRATED MAGAzINE.-phiIa-