Sunbury American. [volume] (Sunbury, Pa.) 1848-1879, 1876-03-10
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THE CLOSING SCENE.
By THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

!
The following poem is pronounced by tn
Westminster Revisw to be the finest ever writte
by an American poet :
Within his 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 AMI bare
The grey barns, looking from their hazy hills
o. the dim waters widening in the wales,
Sent down the air 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 4 dream the distant woodman hcwed
! His winter log with many q muffled blow.
The embottled forest, erewhile armed with gold,
! Their banners bright with every martial hue,
Now stood, like some sad beaten host of old,
! Withdrawn afar in Times remotest blue.
| On slumbrous wings the vuture held his flight
| The dove scarce heard his signing mates
complaint,
And like a star slow drowning in the light
The village church-yane seemed to pale and
faint.
The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew
Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before
Silent till some replying warder blew
His allen horn, and then was heard no more.
Where erst 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 q censer swung
Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves,
The busy swallows, circling ever near,
Eorboding, as the rustic mind believes,
An carly harvest and plenteous year -
Where every bird which charmed the vernal
Shook the swee, slumher from its wings at
morn,
To warn the reaper of the rosy east
All now was songless, emyty and forlorn.
Alone from out the Stubble piped the quail,
And croaked the crow through all the dreamy
gloom;
Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale,
Made echo to the distant 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 flowers,
Sailed slowly by, passed noiseless ont of
sight.
Amid all this in this most cherries air,
And where the woodbine shed upon the porch
Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there
Firing the floor with his inverted torch =
Amid oil this, the centre of the scene,
The white haired matron, with monoionous
tread,
Piled the swift wheel, with her joyous nien,
Sat, like Fate, and watched the flying thread.
She had known sor.ow--he had walked with
her,
Oft supped and broke the bitter ashen crust
And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir
OF his black mantle trailing in the dust.
While yet her cheek was bright with summer
bloom,
Her country summoned and she gave her all
And thrice War Uowed to her his sable plume-
Regaye the sword TO rust upon her wall.
Regave the sword-but not the hand that drew
And struck for liberty its dying blow,
Not hir who to his sire and country true,
Fell mid the ranks OF the invading foe.
Long, but not loud, the droaing wheel went on,
Like the low murmur of hive ut noon
Long. but not loud, the memory OF the gone
Breathej through ter lips a sad and tremu-
lous tune.
At last the thread has snapped-her head was
bowed;
Life dropped the distaff through his hands
serene
And loving neighbors smoo,hed her careful
shroud,
While Death and Winter. closed the Autumn
scene.