The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1867-10-26
The Closing Scene.
BY 7. b. READ.

1.-THE following is pronounced by the Vest
minister ReUieC to be unquestienably the
finest American poem ever written.
Within the sober realm of leafless trees s
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
Der the dun waters widening in the wales,
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills
On the dull thunder Of alternate fails.
All sights were mellowed, all sounds sub
dued,
The hills seemed further, and the stream
sung low,
AS in dream the distant woodman hcwed
His winter log, with many mutfled 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Withdrawn aiar in Times remotest blue.
On sombre wings the vulture tried his fight !;
The dove scarce heard his signing mates
complaint;
And like star slow drowning in the light,
The village church vane seemed to pale
and faint
The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew
Crew thrce-and all was stiller than be.
fore;
Silent, till some replying warder blew
His alien horn, and then was heard no
more.
Where erst the jay, within the cm's tall crest,
nla l,uc Ia rnunI bor , tlnd,
ed young;
And where the orole hung her swaying nest,
BY every light wind like censor swung:
Where sung the noisy martins of tile caves,
The busy swallows, circling ever neal
Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes,
An early harvest and plenteous 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 stuble, piped 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 bow
ers;
The spiders moved their thin shroud, night
by night;
The thistle down, the only ghost of flowers,
Sailed slowly by-passng noiseless out Of
sight.
Amid ali this-in this most dreary air,
And where the woodbne shed upon the
porch
Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there
Firing the floor with his inverted touch.
Amid all this, the centre of the scene,
The white.haired matron with monotonous
Piled the swift wheel, and with her joyous
Sat like fate, and watched the flying
thread.
She had known sorrow. He had walked
with her,
Oft snpped, and broke with her the ashen
crust,
And in the dead leaves still she heard the
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;
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 blows
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 of hive at noon
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone
Breathed through her lips sad and trem,
ulous tone. t
At last the thread was snapped-her head
was bowed
Life dropped the distaff through her hands
serene,
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful
shroud,
While death and winter closed the autumn
scene.