THE CLOSING SCENE

Bruce Herald, Volume IX, Issue 806, 26 May 1876, Page 3

THE CLOSING SCENE

[The following is pronoi .need by tlio 'Westminster Review ' to be unq .lestionablv the finest American poem ever writtei .] Within the sober realm o: leafless trees, The russet 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 O'er the dun waters widening in the vales, Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, On the dull thunder of alternate flails. All sights -were mellowed and all sounds subdued, The hills seemed further and the stream sang low, As in a dream the distant woodman hewed His winter log with many a muffled blow. The embattled forests, erev/hile armed with gold, The banner bright with every martial hue, Now stood like some sad, beaten host of old, Withdrawn afar in Time's remoteat blue. On sombre winos the vulture tried hia flight ; The dove scarce heard hia Binding mate's complaint. And, like a star Blow dro'-vmng in the light, The village church vane seemed to pale and faint. The sentinel cock upon the hillside erew — Crew thrice — and all was stiller than before ; Silent, till some replying warden blew His alien horn, and ihen was heard no more Where erst the jay, withi .1 the elm's tall crest Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young, And when the ]oriole swung her swaying nest. By every light wind like a censer swung. Where sang the noisy martins of the eavea, The busy swallows circling ever near — Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, An early harvest and a plenteous year, Where every bird that walked the vernal feast, Shook the sweet slumbor from its wings at morn, To warn the reaper of tht rosy east — All now was sunless, ei.ipty and forlorn. Alone, from out the stubMe, 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 the cottage loom. There was no bud, no blorm upon the bowers, The spiders moved thei ? thin shrouds night by night, The thistledown, the only ghost of flowers, Sailed slowly by — passed noiselessly out of sight. Amid all this, in this mo?t dreary air, And where the woodbine aeeds. upon th.9 porch Tts crimson leaves, as if the year atood there, Firing the floor with it* 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 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 r.he still heard the stir Of hia 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 — Kegave the sword to rust upon the wall. Regave the sword, but not the hand that drew And struck for liberty 1 ho tiying blow, Nor him who, to his sire and country true, Full 'mid the ranks of the invading foe. Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, Like the low murmur cf a hive at noon ; Long but not loud, the memory of the gone Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tone. At last the thread was snapped, her head was bowed. Life dropped the disbaii' through her hauds serene ; And loving neighbors soothed her careful shroud, While death and winter closed the autumn scene.