The Fremont weekly journal. [volume] (Fremont, Sandusky County, Ohio) 1867-1877, 1872-06-21
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THE CLOSING SCENE
By THOMAS BUoRANAN BEAD.

The following is pronounced by the Vest
r1i'ISter ReUiev to be unquestionably the finest
American poem ever written:
Within the sober realms Of leafless trees,
The russet year inhaled the balmy air;
Like snne tanned reaper in his hour of ease,
WAcn q the fields are lying brown and bare.
The gray barns looking from their hazy hills.
Ger the dim waters widening in the wales;
Sent down the air a 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 streams
sang low.
As in dream the distant woodman hued
His winter log with many mufed blow.
The embattled forests, erewhile armed with
gold,
The banners bright with many martial hue,
Now stood like some sad, beaten host of old,
Withdrawn afar in times remotest hue.
On slumbrous wings the vulture tried his
fight;
The dove scarce heard his signing mates
complaint,
And, like star slow drowning in the light,
The village church vane seemed to pale and
faint.
The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew
Crew thrioe-and was stiller than before;
Silent, till some replying warden blew
His allen horn and then was heard no more.
Where ergt the jay, within the elm's tall crest,
Made garrulous trouble round her unfedged
young;
And where the oriole hung her swaying nest
BY every light wind like censor swung.
Where sang the noisy martins of the caves,
The busy swallows circulating 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 his wings of
morn
To warn the reaper Of the rosy east;
All now was songless 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
loom,
There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers
The spiders wove their thin shrouds nigh
by night
The thistle down, the only ghost of flowers,
Sailed slowly by-passed noisless out o
sight.
Amid all this-in this most dreary air,
And where the woodbine shed upon th
porch
Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there,
Firing the floor with its inverted torch:
Amid all this, the center of the scene,
The white haired natron, with monotonou
tread,
Piled the swift wheel, and with her joyIes
I
mein
Sat like fate, and watched the fyinI
thread.
She had known sorrow. He had walked witt
with her,
Oft supped and broke with her the asher
crust,
And the dead leaves she still heard the stir
OF his black mantle trailing in the dust.
While yet her cheek was bright with summe
bloom,
Her country summoned, and she gave be
all;
And twice war bowed her sable plume
Regave the sword to rust upon the wall.
Regave the sword, but not the hand that drew
And struck for liberty the bying blow.
Nor him, who, to his sire and country true,
Fell mid the ranks Of the invading foe.
Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went OF
Like the low murmur of hive at noon:
Long, but not loud, the memory OF the gone
Breathed through her lips sad and tremu-
lous tone.
At last the thread was snapped, her head was
bowed;
Life dropped the distaff through his hands
serene;
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful
shroud
While death and winter closed the autumn
scene.