The Republican journal., 1869-11-11
THE CLOSING SCENE.
BY T. b. REID.


Within the sober realm of leafcss 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 their hazy hills
Ger the dun waters widening in the wales,
Sent down the air Il 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 stream sang
low.
A. in a dream the distant woodman hewcd.
His winter log with many muff1ed blow.
The cmbattlcd forests, erewhile armed with gold.
Their banner bright with every martial hue,
Now stood like some sad beaten foe of old,
WITHDRAWN afar in Times remoteSt blue.
ON sombre wings the vulture tried his flight:
The dove scarce heard his signing mates COM
plant,
And like star slow drowning in the light
The village church yane seemed to pale and faint.
The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew
Crew thrice-and all stller than before;
silent. till some replying warder blew
His alien horn, and then was heard no more.
" here erst the Wren. within the ems tall crest,
Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged
Young,
And where the oroe swung her swaying nest,
BY every light wind like a censor swung.
Where sang the noisy martens of the caves:
The busy, swallows crcling ever near
Forebodng as the rustic mind believes,
An early harvest and a 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 east
An now was sunless, empty, and fOrlOrn.
Alone, from out the stubblc, piped the quail,
And croakcd the crow through all the dreary
gloom
Alone the pheasant, drumming i'll the vale,
Made echo TO the distant cottage loom.
There was no bud, no bloom, upon the bowers,
The spiders woye their thin shrou,ls night by
night;
The thistle down. the only ghost of flowers.
Sailed slowly by-passed noiseless out of sight.
Amid all this. in this most dreary air,
And where the woodbine sheds upon the porch
lis crimson leaves. a if the year stood there,
Firing the floor With its inverted torch.
Amid All this. the centre of the scene,
The whtehaired matron, with monotonous
tread,
Piled the swift wheel, and with her joyless men
Sat like a fate, and watched the flying thread.
She had known sorrow. He had walked with her,
on 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 vet her cheek was bright with summer
lloom.
Her country summoned, and She gave her all;
And twice war bowed to her his sable plume
Regave the sword to rust upon the wall.
Regave 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. bur not loud, the dronins 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 a sad and tremulous
tone.
AT last the thread was snapped, her head was
bowed;
Life dropped the distaf through her hands
serene;
And loving neighbors soothed her careful shroud,
While death and winter closed the autumn scene.