Cleveland daily leader. [volume] ([Cleveland, Ohio]) 1865-1873, 1865-10-06
DAILY LEADER.
TmE SCENE.
BY T. B. REED.

The following Is pronounced by tn,
Westminster Rerie'O to be unquestionably
the finest American poem ever written.
Within the sober realm OF leahess trees,
The russell 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,
yer the dun waters widening in the Wales,
sent down the air a greeting to the mllls,
On the dull thunder of alternate fails.
Al sights were mellowed, and all sounds suhaued
The hills seemed further, and the stream sang
As in a dream the distant woodman hewed
His winter log, with many amuHied blow.
The embattled forests, erewhile armed with gold,
Their banners bright with every martial hue,
Now stood like some sad, beaten host Of old,
Withdrawn ajar in Times remotest blue.
On sOmbre wings the vulture tried his fight
The dove scarce heard his sigbing mates COM
plant
And, like a star slow drowning in the light,
The village church vane seemed 70 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 elr's tall crest,
Made garrulous trouble round her unhedged
And where the oriole hung her swaying nest,
By every light wind like a censor swung;
Where sang the noisy martins of the caves,
The busy swallows, circling ever near
ForebOding, as the rustic mind believes,
An early harvest and = plenteous year;
Who're every bird that walked the yernaI feast,
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn,
To warn the reaper Of the rosy lust
All now was sunless, empty, and forlorn.
"
And eroaked the crow through all the dreary
gloom;
Alone, the pheasant, drumming in the vale,
Made echo in the distant cottage loom.
There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers;
The spiders moved their thin shrouds night by
night.
The thistle-down, the only ghost Of flowers,
Sailed slowly by-passed noiselesssout 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 Aeor with its
Amid all this, the centre of the scene,
The Whit haired matron with monotonous
tread,
Piled the swift wheel, and with her joyless mein
Sat Ike a 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 check was bright with summer
bloom,
Her country summoned and she gave her all
And twice war bowed TO her his sable plume
Re-gaye the sword to rust upon the wall.
the sword, but not the hand,that drew
And struck for liberty the dying blow;
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 mnrmur of a hive at noon;
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone -
Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous
tone.
last the Thread was snapped-her head WIS
bowed;
; Life dropped the distaf through her hands serene;
And loving neighbors smOOthed her careful shrOud;
While death and winter closed the autumn scene ;