Sunbury American. [volume] (Sunbury, Pa.) 1848-1879, 1871-02-11
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THE CLOSING SCENE.
BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

1.-THE following is pronounced by the West
minister RsU;eto to be the finest American poem
ever written
Within the 5 ,ber realm Of leaiess trees,
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air,
Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease,
When all the fields are lying brown aud bare.
The gray barns, looking from their hazy hills,
O cr The dun waters widening iu The wales,
Bent down the air greeting to the mills,
On the dull thunder of alternate nails,
All sights were mclowed and all sounds .ubdued,
The hills seemed further and streams sang low, +,
Az in dream the distant woojman hcwed
His water log with many mui'lcd blow.
Tbs embatt'ed forests, ere while armed with gold,
Their banner bright with every martial hue,
Now stood ike some sad, beaten host OF old,
Withdrawn afar iu Times rcmOtest blue.
On sonibrc wings the vuture tried his flight,
The dove scarce heard his signing mates COM
plant;
And, ike star slow droening in tho light,
The village church yane seemed TO pale and
faint.
The sentinel Geek upon the hillside crew
Crs~ twice--Rnd all was stier than before
Silent, till s"inr replying warden blew
His alien horn, and then wah heard no Yao ore.
Where ertt the Jay, within the Gins tall crest,
Made garrulOus trouble round her untedsed
Young,
And whvrc the orio!c swung her s~aying nest,
By every light wind like eensor swung;
Where sung the noisy martens Of be saves,
The busy swallo~- circlng ever near
FuIbuding, ~ the rustic mind believes,
An cary harvest and u pienteous year,
Where every bird that wated the vsrns! East,
Shook thu sHeet siumber from its wiuEs si
mora,
To warn she reaper OF the rosy east
All now Was sunless, empty and forlern.
Alone from out the s,ubbe yiped the quail,
And croaksd the clOT thro' all the dreary
giOom
Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale,
Made echo in the distance to the cottage loom.
There was no bud, no bloom spon ,he bowers,
The 'piders moved their thin shrouds night by
night;
The thistle down, tho only ghost Of flowers,
Sailed slowly by-passed noiseless out OF sight.
Amid all this, the centre OF tha scene,
The white-haired matren, with nonotonous
tread,
flict the swim wheel, and with her joyous mein
Sat like fate and watched the dying thread.
She had known sorrow. lie had walked with
her,
or supped rna broke with her the s.hcD crust,
Ana IN the dezd ieaVeS stil sh- h.srd the stir
or his thick mental trailing in tho dust.
While yet her check MAS bright with Summer
bloom,
Her country summoned and she gave her all,
And twice wsr bowed to her his sshr plume
Re-give the sword TO rust upon the wal.
Re-gave the sword, bat not the hand that drew
And strgvk 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 lond, tho droning wheel went on
Like the low murmur Of n hive at noon.
Long, hut not loud, the memory Of the gone
Bfeathed through her lips i sad and treHulous
tone.
At Il st the thread was snapped her head wa.
bowed
Lite dropped the t,stsr through her hands Sc
rene;
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful
shroud,
While death ana Winter close the Autumn