Bloomsburg democrat. [volume] (Bloomsburg, Pa.) 1867-1869, 1868-11-18
T'rlE CLOSING SCENE.
BY T. BUCHANAN READ.

|
The following is pronounced by the West
minister RecieW to be uDquestionably tht
finest American poem ever written:
Within the sober rclms of leafless trees,
| The russct year Inhaled the dreamy air,
Like some tannel reaper in his hour OF ease
When all the fields are lying brown and
bare.
The gray barns looking from their hasy
hills,
Der the dun waters winding in the Wales,
Sent down the air 4 greeting to the mills,
| On the dull thunder of alternate fails.
All sights were molowea and all sounds
subducd,
The hills seemed further and the stream
! sang low,
- in 4 dream the distant wooalnan howod
Ills wintry log, with many 4 mutiied blow.
The cnibattied forests, crcwhi.e armed with
gold,
The banners bright with every martial
hue,
Now stood like some sad, beaten host of old,
Withdrawn atar in Times rcmDtest blue.
On somb,e wings the vulture tried his flight;
The dove scarce heard his signing mate !
complaint;
And, like star slow drowning in the light,
The village church vanc seemed to pale
and faint.
The acn,inel cock upon the hill side crew
Crew thrice-and all was stiller than be-
fore;
Silent, til! some replying warder blew
His clarion horn, and then was heard no
more.
Where erst the jay, within the elm S tall
crest
Made garru'ous trouble round her un-
ltedgcd young
| And where the oriole hung her swaying nest
| By every light wind like censur swung.
Where sang the noisy martins Of the caves,
The busy swallows crcling ever near
| Forbodng, as the rustic mind believes,
An early harvest and plcntcous year.
Where every bird that walked the vernal
feast,
Shook the sweet slumbor from its wings
| at morn,
| To vain the reaper of the rosy lust;
All now Was sunless, empty aud torlorn.
Alone, from out the stubb!e, 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 tho bow
The spiders moved their thin shred night
by night,
The thistle down, the only ghost of flowers,
Sailed slowly by-passed noiseless out of
sight.
Amid all this 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 touch
Amid all this, the centre of the scene;
The white haired matron with monoton-
Gus tread
Piled the swift wheel with her joyous mein
So like fate, and watched the flying
thread
She had known sorrow. lie 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 sum
mer bloom,
Her country summoned, and she gave her
:. all
And twice war bowed to her in 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 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 hive at noon
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone
Breathed through her lips sad and
trcmulous tone.
At last the thread was snapped-her head
was bowed,
Life dropped the distaff through her
hand serene;
And loving noighbors smoothed her careful
shroud,
While death and winter closed the au-
tunln scene.
The Paris Illustration, in giving por-
traits and sketches Of the Siamese Twins,
(now exhibiting themselves in that city,
cells story about them which we have not
Z. =, xo xLo o{}oot thot