The Weekly Perrysburg journal. [volume] (Perrysburg, O. [Ohio]) 1861-1???, 1865-11-24
Che CJastaliau fuuut.
THE CLOSING SCENE.


+ [The following is pronounced by tho us.,p,iaster
Rssiee to be uuqucstiOnably the finest American
poem ever written j
Within the, sober realm of lcaness trees
The rnsset 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 looking from their hazy hills,
Der the dun waters widening in the wales,
Sent down the air a-gteeting 20 the mills,
On the dull thunder Of alternate fails.
All sights we're mellowed and all sounds subducd,
The hills seemed further and the stream sang
low,
As in dream the distant woodman hewed
His winter log with many mufied blow.
Their banner bright with every martial hue,
Now stood like some sad, beaten host Of old,
Withdrawn afar in Times remotcst blaze.
On sombre wings the volture tried his Aeht
Tho dove scarce heard his signing mates COM
plant;
And, like star slow drowning in the light,
The village church-vane seemed 10 pale and
faint.
The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew
Grew thrice-and all was stlier than before
SILENT till some replying warden blew
His alien horn, and then was heard no more,
Made garrulOus trouble round her unHedged
young
And where the oriole hung her swoying nest,
By every light wind like eeuser swung;
Where sang the noisy martins of the ewes,
The busy swallows circling ever near
FoTeboding, as the rustic mind believes,
An early harvest and plenteons year;
Where every bird that walked the vernal feast.
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at
To warn the reaper of the rosy east;
All now was sunless, empty and foslorn.
Alone, from out tho stubble, piped the quail
And croaked the crow through all the dreary
Alone, the pheasant, drumming in the vale,
Made echo in the distance TO the cottage loom.
There was no bud, DO bloom upon the bowers
The spiders moved their thin shrouds night by
The tldstle.down, the only ghost of flowers,
Sailed slowly by-passed noiseless out of sight.
Amid all ths--in this most dieary Dir,
And where the weodbino she'd Npon the porch
Its crimson leaves, as If the year stood there,
Firing the 9oor with its inverted torch
Amid all this, the center OF the scene, -ii
The white-haired matron, with monotonous
tread, suffa.
rlied the swift Wheel and with her ioyless mien
Safe like fate, and watched the flying thread.
She had known Sorrow. He had walked with her,
Oft supped, and broke with her the ashen crust,
And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir
OF his thick mantle trailing in the dust.
While yet her cheek was bright with summeg
bloom, sa an
Her country summoned, and she gave her all;
And twice War bowed to her his sable plume
RegaSc 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 zoe,
Long, but not loud the droning wheel went on,
Like the low murmur Of hive at noon !; u
Long but not loud, the memory of the Gone
.Breathed through her lips. sad and treinu-
lous tune.
AT last the thread was snapped, her head was
bowed; ,t.
Life dropped the distafr through her hands Sc
rene;
And loving neigbbOrs smoolhed her careful
shroad,
While Death and Winter closed the Autumn