, 1876-06-23
The Closing scene

rrhe following is pronounced by the Westminster
Rtr,S,o to be unquestionably the finest American
poem ever written j
within the sober realm Of leafess trees
The r7nsset year inhaled the dreamy ar;
Iite some tanned reaper in the hour Of ease,
When all the fields are lying brown ana Dare
The gr,v barns looking from their hazy hills,
Ger the dun waters widening the Nales'
6ent down the air 3 greeting to the lnllls'
ON the dull thunder of alternate fails
Al, s,obts were mellowed and all sounds subdued
The bill seemed farther and the streams sung low
As in dream the distant woodman bowed
His winter lot with many mufhed blow,
The embattled forests erewhile armed with gold,
The banner bright with every martial hue,
Now stood like some sad-beaten most oI olu'
withdrawn afar in Times remotest blue
On sombre wings the vulture tried his fight
The dove scarce heard his signing maid con-
And NE star slow drowning in the light
The village church vane seemed to pale and faint
The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew
. J Crew thriee-and all was stiler than before;
Silent, till some relying warden DleW
His alien horn, and then was heard no more
where erst the Jay within the elm's tall crest,
Made garrulous trouble round her unneogeo
And where the oriole swung her swaying nest,
By every light wind like censer swung
Where sang the noisy martins of the caves
The busy swallows eirclirg 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 its wings AZ morn
To warn the reaper Of the rosy east
And now was sunless, empty and forlorn
Alone, from out the stubble, piped the quail,
And croaked the crow through all the dreary
Alone the pleasant drumming IN the yale,
Made echo in the distance to the cottage loom.
There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers,
The spiders weaved their thin shrouds night BY
The thistle down, the only ghost Of flowers,
Sailed slowly by-pAssed noiseless out Of sight.
Amid all this in this most dreary air,
And where the woodbine sheds upon the porch
fscrimson leaves, As If the year stood there,
Firing the door with its inverted torch;
kmid all this the centre of the scene,
The white haired matron, with monotonous tread
Piled the swift wheel, and with her joyous mien
Sat like fate, and watched the flying thread
She hnd known sorrow He had walked with her
on gupped and broke with her the ashen crust,
And in tie dead leaves stin she heard the stir
OF his thick mantle trailing in the.dnst.
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
Re-gave the sword to rest upon the wall.
Rs-Qsye the sword, but not the hand that drew
And strnck for liberty the dying blow,
Nor him Who 70 his sire and country true,
Fen mid the ranks Of the invading foe.
Long. but loud, the droning wheel went on,
Like the low murmur Of hive at noon;
Long. but not loud the memory Of the gone
Breathed through her lips . sad and tremulous
tune.
At last the thread was snapped, her heart was
bowed;
Life dropped the distaf through her hand serene;
And loving neighbors soothed her careful shroud,
While death and winter closed the autumn scene.