Weekly Trinity journal., 1873-11-15
THE CLOSING SCENE.
BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

Within the sober realms Of leahess trees
The russet 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,
Ger 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 mollowed and all sounds sub
dued,
The hills seemed further, and the stream
sang low;
As in dream the distant woodman hewed
His Winter log with many a muffied blow
Tho embattlcd forests. erewhile armed with
gold,
Their banners bright with many martial
hue,
Now stood like some sad, beatcn host of old,
Withdrawn afar in time's remotest blue.
On sombre wings the vulture tried its fight,
The dove scarce heard its signing mates
complaint,
And like star slow drowning in the light
The village church-vane seemed to pale and
faint.
The sentinel cock upon tho hillside crew
Crew thrice-and all was stiller than before /;
Silent, till some replying warder blew
His alien horn and then was heard no more
Where erst the jay, within the elms tall crest,
Made garrulous trouble, found her unfedged
young,
nj M hara tba oriola hun1 har Swaviu0 nast
By every light wind like n censor swung.
Where swung the noisy martins on the caves,
The busy swallow circling over near,
Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes.
An early harvest and plenteous year.
Whore every bird that walked tho vernal feast
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at
morn,
To warn the readers of the rosy nest
All now was sunless, empty and forlorn.
Alone from out tho stubble piped the quail
And croakcd the crow through all the dreary
gloom:
Alone the pheasant drumming in the vale,
Made echo in the distant cottage loom.
There was no bud or bloom upon the flowers
The spiders 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, in this most dreary air,
And whore the woodbine shed upon the porch
Its crimson leaves, and the year stood there,
Firing the floor with its inverted torch.
Amid all this, the center of the scene,
The white-hairod matron with monotonous
tread
Piled tho swift wheel, and with her joyous
mein
Sat like fate and watched the flying thread.
She had known sorrow. He had walked
with her,
Oft supped, and broke with her the ashen
crust;
And on the dead leaves still she heard the stir
of his thick mantle trailing in the dust.
While yet her cheek was bright with Summer
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.
Rogave the sword, but not tho hand that drew
And struck for liberty the dying blow;
Nor him who, to his sire and country true,
Foil mid the ranks of tho invading foe.
Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon
Long, but not loud, the memory of tho gone
Breathed through her lips Il sad and tremu-
lous tone.
At last the thread was snapped, her head was
bowed,
Life dropped tho distaf through her hands
serene
And loving Aeighbors smoothed her careful
shroud,
While Death and Winter closed the Autumn
scene.