The daily phoenix. [volume] (Columbia, S.C.) 1865-1878, 1865-11-10

The Closing Scene.


DI I. .. READ.
The following is pronounced by the Vest
minister Reuieto to be unqucstionably the
finest American poem ever written:
Within the sober realms Of leaficss trees,
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air;
Like some tanned reaper in his hour Of
When al the aelds arc lying brown and
The, gray barns looking from their hazy
Der the dun vaters widening in the valcs,
Sent down the air greeting to the mills,
On the dull thunder Of alternate fails.
AL sights werc mcllowed, and all sounds
subdued,
The hills seemed further and the stream
sang low,
AS in dream the distant woodman hewedr
His winter log, with many muffled blow.
The cmbattled forests, crcwhile armed with
gold,
Their banners bright viii. every martinl
Now stood like some sad beaten host OF
old.
Withdrawn afar in Times rcmotcst blue
On sombrc wings the vulturc tried his
flight:
The dove scarce heard his signing iratc's
complaints;
ttlt- lihc star SLOW browning III lllc IlrIlt,
The village church vanc seemed to pale
and faint.
The sentinel cock upon the hillside crow
Crew thricc-and all was stillcr than be-
fore:
Silent, till some replying warder blew
His alien horn, and then was heard no
Where erst the jay, within the clm's tall
crest,
Made garrulous trouble round her un-
1cdged young;
And where the oriolc hung her swavinc
nest,
BY every light wind like censor swung;
Where sang the noisy martins of the caves,
The busy swallows circling ever near
Forcboding, as the rustic mind believes,
An early harvest and a plentcous year;
Where every bird that walked the vernal
feast,
Shook the sweet slumbcr from it's wings
at morn;
To warn the reaper of the rosy East,
All now was sunless. empty and forlorn.
Alone, from ont the stubblc, pipcd the
quail;
And croaked 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 thistlo-down, the only ghost of flowers,
Sailed slowly by-passed noiscless out of
sight.
Amid all this-in this most dreary air.
And where the woodbine shed upon the
porch
It's crimson leaves, as if the year stood
Firing the floor with it's inverted torch.
Amid all this, the centre of the scene,
The white-haired matron, with monoto-
nous tread,
Piled the swift wheel, and with her joyless
mien
Sat like a fate, and watched the flying
She had known sorrow. He had walked
Oft suppcd, and broke with her the ashen
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 SUM-
mer bloom,
Her country summoned and she gave
her all;
And twice war bowed to her his sable
Re-gave the sword to rust 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 murmur Of a hive at noon:
Long. but not loud, the memory OF the
gone
Breathed through her lips sad and trt-
mulous tone;
At last the thread was snapped; her hoad
was bowed,
Life dropped the distafr through her
hands serene;