Grant County herald. [volume] (Lancaster, Wis.) 1850-1968, 1885-11-05
The Closing Scene.

The following poem, by T. Buchanan
Read, is pronounced by the West
minister Review to be unquestiona ably
the finest American poem ever written
Within the sober realms OF leafiess trees
The russell 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 Wales
Sent down the air greeting TO the mills
On the duh thunder of alternate fails.
All sights were mellowedaud all sounds subdued,
The hills seemed farther, and the streams sang
low,
As in dream the distant woodman hewed
His winter log with many mufiled blow.
The embattled forests, erewhile armed with gold
y Ineir banners bright with every martial hue,
Withdrawn afar in Times remotest blue
On sombre wings the vulture tried his flight
Inc dove scarce heard his signing mates com
plaint
And like q star slow dropping in the hight,
Inc 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
Ills Alpen horn, and then was heard no more
Whore erst the jay within the elm's tall crest
Made garrulous trouble round her unfiedged
young;
And where the oriole hung her swaying nest.
BY every Light wind like a censor swung.
Where sung the noisy martens of the caves.
The busy swallowsl circling eyersnear.
Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes
An early harvest and plenieous year.
Where every bird that walked the vernal feast,
Shook the sweet slumber from its wing at morn.
10 warn the reaper OF the rosy East
III an nl0E1 st.,t a 81
Alone from out the stubble piped the quail.
ana croaked the crow through all the dreary
Alone, the pheasant, drumming i n the vale.
Made echo to the distant cottage loom.
There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers;
The spiders wove their thin shroulds II light by
night -
The thistledown, the only ghost of flowers.
Sailed slowly by-passed noiselessly out ofsight.
Amid all this. in the most dreary air,
And where the woodbine shed upon the porch
Its crimson leaves, as If the year stood there
Firing the floor with its inverted torch
Amid all this. the centre of the scene,
The white-haired matron, with monotonons
tread,
Piled the swift wheel, and with her ioyless mien.
Sat like Fate, and watched the flying thread
She had sorrow. He had walked with her.
OIt supped and broke with her the ashen crust
And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir
VI his thick mantle trailing in the dust.
While yet her cheek was bright with sunny 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;
Regaye the sword, but not the hand that drew
And struck forlberty the diving blow:
Nor him who, to his sire and country true
Fell mid the ranks Of the invading foe
Long. but not lond, the droning wheels 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 head was
bowed
Life dropped the distaff through her hands
serene.
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud
While death and winter closed the autumn
scene.