Green-Mountain freeman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1844-1884, 1876-02-16


Westminster Review to be uneuestionably
the finest American poem ever written:
Within the sober realm of leaiess trees
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air:
Like some tanned reaper. in his hour of ease,
When all the folis are lying brown and bare.
The gray barns looking from their hazy hills.
O'ert c dun waters widening i'll the val s.
Sent down the air a erecting to the mills.
On the duh thunder Of IL l.ernate fails
All sights were nell owed and all sounds suhiued
lie hlll' seemed farther and the streams sang W.
As IN dream the distant woodman hewed
His winter ~ with many a mutiied llow
The embat'lad forests, erewhile armed with gGl,
Ihe banner bright with every martial hue.
Now stood like some sad, beaten host of cli,
Withdrawn afar III Times remotest blue.
On somhre wings the vuitrlre tried his flight
The dove scarce heard his sishng mates complaint
And, like star 81 w drowning in the light,
The village church seemed to pale and faint
The sentinel cock ur i'll the hillside crew
Crew thrice and all was stiler than before:
Silent. til some replying warden blew
His alien horn, and then was;heard more.
Where erst the jay. within the tln's tall crest
Made garrnlous trouble round her untiedxed young
And when the OriDle swung her swaying nest
By every light wind like a censcr swung
Where sang the noisy lnlrtins of the caves,
The busy swall Dws clrcling
FortbOding. as the rustic mind believes,
An early harvest and II .nteous year
Where every bird that walked the vernal feast
Shook the sweet sllmher from its wings at morn,
To warm the reaper of the rosy east
And now sunless. empty and foil orn
lone. from ont the stuhhle pirei the quail
And croaked the crow through all the dreary q 'om
Alone the pheasant. drumming i'll the vale
in tltat tjipt.,
There no bud. no bloom upon the bowers
No spiders we'd their thin shrouds night by night
The thistle down. the only xhCs of flowers
Sailed 81 'wly by-passed noislessly out of sight.
Amid IL this. in this dreary air,
And where the woodbne sheds upon the porch
Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there.
Firing the moor with its inverted torch.
Amid all this the center of the scene.
The white haired matron with monotonous tread.
Piled the swift weee and with her joyous lnien
Sat like fate, and watched the ii yng thread.
She had known sorrow. He had walked with her
Oft supped and broke with her the ashen crust,
And il the dead leaves still 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 ALL
And twice was bowed to her his sable plume
ie-aye the sword TO rust upon the wall
Re-aNe the sword, hut not the hand that drew
And struck for liberty the d y ing blow
Nor him who to his sire the country true.
Fell mi tho ranks the inv aClng foe
Long hut not loud, the lronlng wheel went on,
Like the low mHrmur of hive at noon;
Long, but not loud. the memory of the gone
Breathed through her lips sad aud tremulous tone
last the thread was snapped, her head was bowed;
dropped the ,ilstaf through her hands serene;
And loving utighhors snoOthe her careful shroud
While Death and Winter closed the Autumn sceile
T. h. Ied1.