The Nevada Democrat., 1858-04-21
THE CLOSING SCENE.
HY T. BUCHANAN REED.


Within the sober realm Of leaness trees,
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air;
Like some tanned reaper, in his hour OF ease,
When all the fields are laying brown and bare.
The CAV barns, looking from their hazy hills,
O'er the dun waters widening in the wales,
Sent down the air greeting to the mills,
On the dull thunder Of returning fails.
All sights were mellowed and all subdued;
The hills seemed further, and the stream sang low,
As in a dream; the distant woodman hewed
His winter log, with many mufiied blow
The embattled forest erewhile armed in gold,
Their banners bright with every martial hue,
Now stood like some sad beatenlhost of old,
Withdrawn afar in Times remotest blue.
On sombre wings the vulture tried her fight;
The dove scarce heard his signing mates complaint
And like star slow drowning in the light,
The village church vane seemed to pale and faint
The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew
Crew thrce-and all the stiller than before;
Silent till some replying waTder blew
His alien horn, and then was heard no more.
Where erst the jay, within the elms tall crest,
Made garrulous trouble round her unhedged young;
And where the orice hung her swaying nest,
BY every light wind like censer swung;
Where sang the noisy martins of the caves,
The busy swallows, circling ever near
Foreboding as the rustic minds believes,
An early harvest, and penteous year.
Where every bird which charmed the verna feast
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn
To warn the reapers of the rosy east;
All now sunless, empty and forlorn.
Alone from out the stubbe, piped the quail;
And croaked the through all the dreary gloom;
Alone, the pheasant, drumming in the vale,
Made echo to the distant cottage loom.
There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers;
The spiders move their thin shrouds, night by nigt
The thistle down, the only ghost OF flowers,
Sailed slowly by-passng the noiseess out OF sight
Amid all this-in the most cheeress air,
And where the woodpine shed upon the porch,
It's crimson leaves, If the year stood there,
Firing the floor with its inverted torch
Amid all this the center Of the scene,
The white haired matron, with monotonous tread
Piled the swift wheel and with joyous men,
Sat like Fate and watched the flying thread.
She had known sorrow lie had walked with her.
Oft supped and broke with her the ashen crust;
And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir
Ofhis brick mantle trailing in the dust.
While vet her cheek was bright with summer bloom,
Her country summoned and she gave her all;
And twice bowed to her his sable plume
Regave the sword to rust upon the wall
Regave the sword-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 murmurs Of a hive at noon;
Long but not loud the memory Of the gone
Breathed through her lips sad and tremuous tune.
At last the thread was snapped-her head bowed
Life dropped the distaG through her hands serene;
And loving neghbors smoothed her careful shroud,
While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene.