Wilmington journal. [volume] (Wilmington, N.C.) 1844-1895, 1866-08-23
THE CLOSING SCENE.

The following is pronounced by the Westminster Re-
uea0 to be unquesonable the finest American poem
written
Within the sober realms of leafess trees,
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air:
Like some tanned reaper III his hour OF case,
When all the fields are lying brown and bare.
The gray barns looking from their hazy hills,
Ger the dun waters widening i'll the wales,
Sent down the air greeting to the mills,
On the dull thunder Of alternate fails.
All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued,
The hills seemed further and the streams sang low,
As in a dream the distant woodman hewed
His winter log, with many muthed 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Withdrawn afar in times remotest blue.
On somber wings the vulture tried his fight
The dove scarce heard his signing mates complaint
And like star, slow dropping in the light,
The village church vane seemed to pale and faint:
The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew.
Crew thrice-and all was stiler than before
Silent, till some replying warbler blew
His alien horn, and then was heard no more.
Where erst the Jay within the elms tall crest
Made garruous trouble round her unfedged young
And where the orele hung her swaying nest,
By every light wing like censor swung.
Where sang the noisy martins of the caves.
The busy swallows circing ever near
ForebOding the rustic mind believes,
An earthly harvest and penteous year
Where every bird that walked the vernal 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
Alone, from out the stubble, pped 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 thistle down, the only ghost OF flowers,
Sailed slowly by-passed noiseess out OF sight.
Amid all this-in this most dreary air,
And where the woodbine shed upon the porch
Its crimson leaves, If the year stood there,
Firing the blood with its inverted torch.
Amid all ths-the center of the scene,
The white haired matrOn, with mOnOtonOus tread,
Piled the swift Wheel and with her joyous men
Sat 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 summer bloom,
Her country summoned, and she gave her all
And twice war bowed to her his sable plume
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 mis- 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 hive at noon
Long, but not loud, the memory Of the gone
Breathed through her lips sad and tremulous tone.
At last the thread snapped, her head was bowed
Life dropped the dstaf through her hands serene,
And loving neighbors smothered her careful shroud
While death and winter closed the autumn