Santa Fe daily New Mexican. [volume] (Santa Fe, N.M.) 1885-1897, 1896-04-15
GEMS IN VERSE.
Lincoln.

Lincoln.
Birth seems Ike chance. and life appears un-
certain;
All living things express Il force unbidden;
Unconscious nature never lifts the curtain.
Men tumble at her door; the key is hidden.
They call chance blind, and they themselves
are blind.
Great natures forces, unrestrained and free,
Produced by chance this giant of mankind
And challenge man to solve his mystery
Spontaneous, inspired the perfect flower
OF chance, he was by liberal nature sent
To rule men nobly with unconscious power
And Justify the law Of accident.
Titanic seer and poet lovable,
His life links Shakespeare's with the proba
BILE!
Bee Ditmars In New York Sun.
The Closing Scene.
Within the sober realm of lea1less trees
The russell year inhaled the dreamy air,
Like some tired 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 In the wales
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills
On the dull thunder Of alternate fails.
All sights were mellowed and all sounds sub
dued,
The hills seemed farther, and the stream
sang low,
As in dream the distant woodman hewed
His winter log with many a muff1ed blow.
The embattled forests, erewhile armed with
gold,
Their banner bright with every martial hue,
Now stood. like some sad. beaten host of old,
Withdrawn afar in times remotest blue.
On somber wings the vulture tried his fight.
The dove scarce heard his signing mates
complaint,
And, like 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 warden blew
His alien horn and then was heard no more.
Where rest the jay, within the elm 8 tall crest,
Made garrulous trouble round her unfedged
young.
And where the oriole swung her swaying nest,
By every light wind like u censor swung;
Where sang the noisy martins of the caves.
The busy swallows circling 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 at
morn,
To warn the reaper of the rosy east.
All now as sunless, empty and forlorn-
Alone, from out the stubble, piped the quail.
And croaked the crow through all the dreary
gloom;
Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale,
Made echo in the distance to tho cottage
loom.
There was no bud, no bloom. upon the bowers;
The spiders moved their thin shrouds night
by night:
Sailed slowly by. passed noiselessly out of
Amid all this, in this most dreary air
And where the woodbine sheds upon the
porch
Its crimson leaves, as If the year stood there,
Firing the floor with its inverted torch
Amid all this, the center Of the scene.
The white haired matron, with mOnstrous
tread,
Piled the swift wheel, and with her joyous
mien
Sat like fate and watched the flying thread.
She had known sorrow--he had walked with
her,
Oft supped and broke with her the ashen
crust
And in the dead leaves still heard the stir
OF his thick mantle trailing in the dust.
While yet her check was bright with summer
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.
Regave the sword, but not the hand that drew
And struck for liberty the 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 a hive at noon;
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone
Breathed through her lips sad and tremu-
lous tune.
At last the thread was snapped; her head was
bowed:
Life dropped the distatf through her hands
serene,
And loving neighbors soothed her careful
shroud
While death and love closed the autumn
scene.
Thomas Buchanan Read.