The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1872-05-22
POETRY.
The Closing Scene.

BY t. b. READ.
The following is pronounced by the west
minister Repie,o to be unquestionably the
finest American poem ever written
Within the sober realm of eafess trees,
The rnsset wear 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 dim waters widening in the wales;
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills,
On the duh thunder of alternate fails
All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued,
The hills seemed further and the streams sang low,
AS in dream the distant woodman hewed
His winter log with many mufned blow.
The embattled forests, erewhile armed with gold,
Their banners bright with many a martlai nue.,
Now stood like some sad, beaten host OF oid,
Withdrawn afar in times remotest piue'
On slumb rous wings the vulture tried his flight;
The dove scarce heard ms sgng mai complaint
The village church vane seemed to pale and faint,
The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew
Crew thrice-and all was stiller than before;
Silent, till some replying warden blew
His alien horn, and then was heard no more
Where srst 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 a censor swung.
Where sang the noisy martins OF the caves,
The busy swallows crcling ever near
Foreboding as the rustic mind believes,
An early harvest and pleuteous year;
Where every bird that walked the vernal feast,
>, Shook the sweet sumber from its wings at 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 night by night;
The thistle down, the only ghost of )wers,
Sailed slowly by-passed noiseless out Of sight
Amid all this-in this most dreary air,
And where the woodbine shed upon the porch
Its crimson leaves as if the year stood there,
Firing the floor with its inverted torOh
Amid all this, the centre of the scene,
-, The white.haired matren with monotonous tread,
Piled the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien
Sat like a fate, and watched the flying thread.
She had known sorrow. He had walked with her,
Ott supped and broke with her the ashen crust,
And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir
Of his black mantle trailing in the dnst.
While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom
Herlcountry summoned and, she gave her all;
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 drew
And struck for liberty the dying blows
Nor him, who to his sire and country true,
Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe.
Long, but not loud, the dronng wheel went on,
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon:
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone
Breathed through her lips sad and trenulous tome
At last the thread was snapped her head was boved
Life dropped the distaf through her hands serene :
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud
Wme death and winter closed the autumn scene.