The Columbian. [volume] (Bloomsburg, Pa.) 1866-1910, 1869-12-03
Ghoiee 9netry.
The Closing Scene.
ny THOMAS nucHANAN READ.


The following is pronounced by the London
Westminster Repiew to be unquestionably tho
finest American poem ever written.
Within the sober realms of the leafcss trees,
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air;
Like some tanned reaper In his hours of case,
When all the fields lying brown and bare.
The gray barns looking from their hazy hills.
Ger the dun waters widening in the wales,
Sent down the air greeting to the mills
On the dull thunder of alternate fails.
Allsights were mellowed and all sounds subdued,
The hills seemed further, and the stream sang
low
As in dream the distant woodman hewed
His winter log with many muflled blow,
The embattled forests, ,orewhle armed with gold,
Their banners bright with every martial hue,
Now stood like some sad. beaten host of old,
withdrawn afir In Times rellotest blue.
on sorpbre wings the vulture tried his flight;
The dove scarce heard his singing mates COM
plant:
And, like star slow drowning in the light,
The village churt h.vane seemed to pale and
faint
| The sentinel cock upon the hill. side crew
Crew thrice-and all was stiller than before;
silent, till some replying warder blew
His allen horn and then was heard no more
Where erst the jay within the elms tall crest,
Made garrulous trouble round her unhedged
| young:
And where orlole hung her swaying nest,
By every light wind like a censer swung;
| Where swung the noisy martins OF the caves,
The busy swallows circling 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 warm the reaper of the rosy east;
. All now was sunless, empty and forlorn
Alone from out the stubble, piped the quail
And crooked the crow through all the dreary
| gloom;
Alone, the pheasant drumming in the vale,
Made echo in the distant cottage loom.
There no bud, no bloom upon tho bowers;
The spiders moved their thin shrouds night by
night;
The thiste-down, the only ghosts OF flowers,
Sailed slowly by-passed noiseless out of sight
Amid all thls-in this most drcary air,
And where the woodbine shed upon the porch
Its crimson leaves, as ifthe year stood there
Firing the floor with Its inverted torch.
Amid all this-the centre of the scene,
The white haired matron. with monotonou!
tread,
Piled the swift wheel, and with her joyless mier
sat like a fate, and watched the flying thread
She had known sorrow. He had walked will
| her,
Oft supped and broke with her the ashen crust
And in the dead leaves still she heard the sti
Ofhis thick mantle trailing in the dust.
While yet her cheek was bright with summe
bloom,
Her country summoned and she gave her al
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 dre'
And struck for liberty the dying blow;
| Nor him who to his sire and country true,
Fell mid the ranks ofthe invading foe
Long but not loud, the dropping wheel went O
Like the low murmur of n hive at noon;
Long, but not loud the memory OF the gone
Breathed through her lipsa sad and tremulou
tone.
At last the thread was snapped-her head WI
bowed,
Lie dropped the disiaft through her hands 81
rene;
And loving neighbors smoothed her carcf'
shrOud,
While death and winter closed the autum
scene