Port Tobacco times, and Charles County advertiser. (Port Tobacco, Md.) 1845-1898, 1871-01-13
gelfrtsn puetry.
THE CLOSING SCENE.
BY T. B. READ.

rThe following is pronounced by the West
minister Reuiew to be the finest American poem
ever written. fF1s. fsts
Within the sober realm of leahess 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,
Der the dun waters widening in the wales,
Sent down the air greeting to the mills,
On the dull thunder of alternate fails.
All sights were mellowed and all sounds sub
dued,
The hills. seemed further and the stream sang
low,
Al Id q dream the distant woodman hewed r.
HiS winter leg with many mufled blow.
The embattled forests, ere while armed with
gold,
Their banner bright with every martial hue,
Now stood like some sad, beaten host OF old,
Withdrawn afar in Times remotest blue.
On sombre wings the vulture tried his flight;
The dove scarce heard his signing mates
complaint;
And like. a star slow drowning in the light,
The village church vane seemed to pale and
faint.
The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew
Grew thrice-and all was stiller than before;
Silent, till some replying warden blew
l.z:s.. &-s.i, I'D 70 more
Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest,
Made garrulous trouble round her unhedged
young,
And where the oriole swung her swaying nest,
By every light wing like a censer swung;
Where sang the noisy martens of the caves,
The busy swallows circling ever near
.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 al
To warn the reaper of the rosy east -
All now was sunless, 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 in the distance to the cottage 10 om
There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers
The spiders moved their thin shrouds nigh
by night;
The thistle down, the only ghost of flowers,
Sailed slowly by-passed hoiseless out Q
sight.
Amid all this, in this most dreary air,
And where the woodbine sheds upon thu
porch
Its crimson leaves, as if the 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 joyous meil
Sat like fate and watched the flying thread
She had known sorrow. He had walked will
her,
Oft supped and broke with her the asher
And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir
Of his thick mantle trailing in the dust.
While yet her cheek was bright with summe
bloom,
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.
Reoay, 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 Zoe.
Long, butaot loud the droning wheel went on
Like the low muymur of hive at noon;
Long. but not loud, the memory OF the gone
Breathed through her lips sad and tremu
louS tone. q
At last the thread was snapped, her head wa
bowed;
Life dropped the .distaff through her hand.
serene; 1a..s p. 81 .e.ssis.5. .
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful
shroud,
While death and winter closed the autumn