The Shasta courier., 1868-08-08
SHASTA COURIER.
THB CLOSING SCENE.
BY 7. BUCHANAN REED.

1.-THE North British Review pronounees this the
best poem that has ever been written by Amer
lean author ]
Within the sober realm of leaGcss 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 t. cir hazy hills,
Der the dim waters widening in the wales,
Sent down the air greeting to the mills,
On the dull thunder of alternate fails.
All sights were melowed, and all sounds subdued
The hills seemed further, and the streams sang
As in a dream, the distant woodman hewed
His Winter log, with many mufied blow.
The embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold,
Their banners bright with every martial hue,
Now stood like some sad beaten host of old,
Withdrawn afar in times remotest blue.
On slumb' 'rous wings the vuture tried h flight.
The dove scarce heard his signing mates com
plaint
And like star, slow drowning in the light
The village church-yane seemed to pale and
faint.
The sentinel cock upon tho hillside crew,
Crew thrice, and all stler than before
Silent till some replying warbler blew
Ills dlltu nOTl, anu was Htdfu No iHOIe
Where erst the JOY, within the elm's tall crest,
Made garruous trouble round the unhedged
young,
And where the orolo hung her swinging nest,
By every light wind like center swung.
Where sang the noisy masons of h caves,
The busy swallows circling near,
Forebodng, as the rustic mind believes,
An early harvest and a penteous year.
Where every bird that charmed the yerna feast,
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn,
To the reapers Of the rosy East
All now songless, empty and forlorn
Alone. from out the stubble, piped the quail,
And croaked the crow, through all the dreary
gloom:
Alone, the pheasant, drumming in the vale,
Made echo TO the distant cottage loom.
There was no bud, DO bloom upon the bowers;
The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by
night;
The thistle down, the only ghost of flowers,
Sailed slowly by-passed noiscless out of sight.
Amid all this-n this most cheerful air,
And where the woodbne sheds upon the porch
Its crimson leaves, if the year stood there,
Firm. the floor with its inverted torch
Amid all this, the center of the scene,
The white haired matron, with monotonous
tread,
Piled the swift wheel, and, with her joyless men,
sat like fate, and watched the flying thread.
She had known sorrow. He had walked with her,
Oft supped and broke with her he ashern crust,
And in the dead leaves still she heard thestr
OF his black 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
Regave the swords to rest upon the wall
Re-gave the swords-but not the hand that drew
And struck for liberty dying blow;
Nor him. who, to his sire and country true,
Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe.
Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,
Like the low murmurs of a 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
bowed;
Low drooped the distaf through her han.s
serene,
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud
While Death aud Winter closed the Autumn
scene.