Daily Los Angeles herald. [microfilm reel] (Los Angeles [Calif.]) 1876-1884, 1883-02-15
THE CLOSING SCENE.

1.-THE following poem was written by Thomas
Buchanan Road, the American poet and painter,
while he was residing at Rome. II has great
deal OF the pathos and grandeur OF urays I'm.
MIR. Reads productions and has been styled by
the London Quarterly the finest poem written by
any American author IL Is poem peculiarly
~ for the closing days Of the departing year'l
Within his somber realm OF eahess trees
The russell Year inhaled the dreamy air;
Like some famed reaper In his hour OF case,
When all the fields are lying brown and bare.
The grey barns looking from their hazy hills
Der 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 subdued,
The hills seemed farther and the streams sang
low;
As ina dream tho distant woodman hewod
His winter log with many niuiiled blow.
The embattled forests, erewhile armed In gold,
Their banners bright with every martial hue,
Now stood, like some sad beaten host Of old,
Withdrawn afar In Times remotest blue.
On sumbrous wings the yulture held his flight;
This dove scarce heard his signing mates com
plant;
The village church.yano seemed to pale and
faint.
The sentnel-cock upon the bill side crow
Crew thrice, and all was stillcr than before
Silent I'LL some replying warder blow
His alien horn, and then was heard no more.
Where crst the jay, within the elm's tall crest.
Made garruious trouble round her uniiedgod
young,
And where the oriolo hung her swaylng nest,
by every light wind Ike censor swung
Whore sang the noisy masons Of the caves,
The busy swallows, clrcling ever near,
foreboding, as the rustic mind believes,
An early harvest and u plenteous year,
Where every bird which charmed the verna
feast,
Shook the sweet slumbcr from its wings at
morn,
To warn the reaper Of tho early east
All now was songless, empty and forlorn.
Alone from out the stubblo pipod the quail,
And croaked the CROW through all tho 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 there thin shrouds night by
night:
The thistle down. the only ghost Of flowers.
Sailed slowly by, passed noscoss out OF sight.
Amid all this, In this most cheerless air,
And where the woodbine shed upon the porch
Its crimson leaves, as II the Year stood there
Firing the floor with his inverted toich;
Amid all this the centre Of the scene.
The white-haired matron, with monotonous
tread,
Piled the swift Wheel and with her joyless mien,
Sat, like q Fate, and watched the flying thread
She had known Sorrow-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 twice War bowed TO her his sable plume
Regsvc the sword, to rust upon her wall
Regaye the swords -but not the hands that drew
And struck for Liberty its dying blow,
Nor him who, TO his sire and country true,
Fell mid the ranks Of the invading foe.
Long but not loud, the droning wheel went on
Like the low murmur Of q 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-hor head was
bowed
Life dropped the distaff through his hands
serone,-
And loving ncighbors smoothed her careful
shroud,
While Death and Winter closed the autumn
scene.