Raftsman's journal. [volume] (Clearfield, Pa.) 1854-1948, 1865-11-29
8aftsnsan's 5ournal.
CLEARFIELD, PA, NOV. 90, 1865.
THE CLOSING SCENE.
BYr. sucHAsA. READ

BYr. BUcHASA. READ.
The following lie pronounced by the "Westmin
ster Review TO be unquestionably the finest
American poem ever written:
Within the sober realms of leafess trees,
The russet year inhaled the dreamy ar,
Like some tanned reaper in his hour OF ease,
When all the fields are lying brown and bare
Tho gray barns looking from their hazy hills
Der the dun waters winding In the wales,
Sent down the air a greeting to the nils,
On the dull thunder Of alternate fails
All sight. were melIowed, and all sounds subdued.
The hills seemed further and the stream sang
As in a dream the distant woodman hewed
His wintry log, with many mufied blow.
The mbattled forests srewhile armed with gold
Their banners bright with every martial hue,
Now stood like some sad, beaten host of old,
Withdraw afar in Times remotest blue.
On sombre wings the yulture tried his fight;
The dove scarce heard his signing mates com
plant;
And, like a star slow drowning in the light,
The village church vaEe seemed to pale and faint
The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew
Crew thrice-and all was stiller than before;
Silent, till some replying warder blew
His alien horn, and then was heard no more
Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest,
Made garrulous trouble round her unfedged
young;
And where the oriole hung her swaying nest,
Where sang the noisy martins of the caves,
The busy swallows circliDg ever near
Fore boding as the rustic mind believes,
An early harvest and a plenteous year.
Where every bird that walked the vernal feast,
Shook the sweet slum Der from its wings at morn;
To warn the reaper of the rosy lust;
All now was sunless, empty and forlorn.
Alone, from out the stubbls. piped the quail
And croaked the crow through all the dreary
gloom,
Alone, the pheasant drummingin in the vale.
Made echo in the distant cottage loom.
There was no bud, nc bloom upon the bowers;
The spiders moved their thin shrouds night by
night,
The thistIe-down, the only ghost of flowers,
Sailed slowly by-passed noiselessiout of sight
Amid all this-in this most dreary air
And where the woodbine shed upon the porch
Its crimson leaves as if the year stood there,
Firing the floor with its inverted torch.
Amid all this. the centre of the scene,
The W hite- b aired natron with mon otonous tread
Piled the swift wheel, and with her Joyless mein
Sat like fate, and watched the flying thread.
She had known sorrow. Hehad Wake 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 bright with summer
bloom.
Her country sommoned and she gave her all
And twice war bowed TO her in sable plume
Re-gave the sword to rast upon the wall
Re-gave 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 dropping wheel went on,
Like the low murmer of hive at noon
Long but not loud the memory of the gone
Breathed through her lips sad and tremulous
tone.
Al last the thread was snapped-her head was
bowed,
Lille dropped the distaf thro her hands serene
And loving neighbors smo Doth her cal eful shroud
While death and winter closed the autumn scene