The new North-west. [volume] (Deer Lodge, Mont.) 1869-1897, 1872-05-25
POETRY.
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last week IN New Y0sk, - bees psuoounoed by ttc
WsstMtsstv Rssisv The HasH psa n tAs Ensiisb
language. not that for thse aee thoee Il may not
approach It y q least most admirable and The moet
cxqusitey finished writing of the diinguishsd poet
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Within the sombre realm OF lea0less trees
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air:
Like some tannd reaper In his hour Of ease,
When al The fields are lying brown and bare.
The gray barns looking from their haxy hills
Or the dun waters widening Ia the wales,
Sent down the ar greeting 70 the miIk
On the dull thunder Of alternate Aails.
An sights were mellowed and III sounds subdued,
The hills seemed farther and the streams Gang low;
Az in dream the distant woodman hewed
His winter log with many mufied blow.
The embattlcd forests, ,.esswhne armed in gold,
Their banners bright with every martial hus,
Now stood, like some sad beaten host Of old
withdrawn afar in Times remotcst blue
On slumbrous wings the vulture held his flight;
The dove scarce heard its signing mates complaint;
And like star slow drowning in the light,
The village church-yane seem'd to pale and faint
The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew
Crew thrice and oil was stiller than before,
Silent till some replying warder blew
His alien horn, and then was heard no more
Where crst the jay, within the elm's tall crest.
Made garrul0us trouble round her undedgd young:
And where the ori0le hung her swaying nest
By every light wind like censer swung ..
Where sung the noisy masous Of the caves,
The busy swallows circliDg ever near.
Forcboding. ~ the rustic mind believes,
An early harvest and plcntcous year.
Where every bird which charmd the vernal feast,
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings 1t morn,
To warn the reaper OF the rosy eaet--
All now was songlcss. einrty and forlorn.
Alone from out the stubble piped the quail,
And croakd the crow thro' all the drcary gloom;
Alone the pheasant, drumming In the vale,
Made echo to the distant cottage loom. al
There was NO bud, no bloom upon the bowers;
The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night
The thistle down, the only ghost Of flowers,
Sailed slowly by-psss'd noiseless ont IT sight
Amid all this, In this most cheerless afr,
And where the woodbine strcwed upon the porch,
Its crimson leaves, as II the Year stood there
Firing the door with his inverted t0rche-
Amid all this, the center OF the scene.
The white haired ma.ron with monotonous tread,
Piled the swift wheel, aud with her joyous mieu,
Sat, like Fate, aud watched the hying thread.
She had known Sorrow, had walk'd with her,
OFT supp'd and broke the bitter ashcn crust
And In the dead leaves still she beard the STIR,
OF bis black mantle trailing In the dust.
While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom,
Her country summoned aud she gave her al
And twice War how'd TO her his sable plume
Rcgavs the sword to rust upon her wall
Regave the sword, but not the hand that drew
And struck for liberty its dying blow,
Nor him who. 10 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 murmur of hive At noon;
Long, but not loud, the memory Of the gone
Breath'd thrO her lips sad and tremRlous tune.
At last the thread was suapd her head Was bow'd;
Life dropt the dista6 through her hands serene;
And loving ncighbors sm0othd her careful shrOud
While death and winter closed the autumn scene.