POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2478, 16 March 1882, Page 4

POETRY.

THB CLOSING SCENE.

jThe following is pronounced by the “ Westminster Review ” to be unquestionably the finest American poem ever written.]

Within the sober realms of leafless trees, The russet year inhaled the dreamy air; Jjiko some tanned reaper in thin hour of ease, When all the fields are lying brown and bare.

The gray barns looking from their hazy hills, O’er the dun waters widening in the vales. Sent down the air a greeting to the m-lls, On the dull thunder of alternate flails.

All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued. The hills seemed farther and the streams sang low. As in a dream the distant woodman hewed His winter log, with many a muffled blow.

The embattled forests, orewhile armed with gold, , Their banners bright with every martial hue, Now stood like some sad, beaten host of old. Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue.

On sombre wings the vulture tried his flight; The dove scarce heard his sighing mate’s oomplaint; And, like a star slow drowning in the light. The village church vane seemed to pale and faint.

The sentinel cook upon the hillside crew— Grew thrice —and all was stiller than before. Silent, till some replying warder blew His alien horn, and then was heard no more.

Where erst the jay within the elm’s tall crest, Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young ; And where the oriole hung her swaying nest, By every light wind like a censor swung ;

Where sang the noisy martins of the oaves, The busy swallows circling ever near. Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, An early harvest and a plenteous year I

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 was 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 distant cottage loom.

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers ; The spiders wore their thin shrouds night by night, 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 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 monotonous tread, Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mein, Sat like a fate, ani 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 she heard the stir Of his thick 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— Be-gave the sword, to rust upon the wall.

Be-gave the sword, but not tbe band that drew And struck for liberty the dying blow f Nor him who, to his sire and country true, Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe.

long, but not loud, the dropping wheel vrent on, Like the low murmur of a hive at noon ; long, but not loud, the memory of the gone— Breathed through her lips a 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. T. Buchanan Bead.