THE CLOSING SCENE
by: Thomas Buchanan Read
(1822-1872)
- ITHIN his sober realm of 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 dim 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 sound 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, erewhile armed in 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- Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue.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 slumbrous wings the vulture held his flight;
- The dove scarce heard his singing mate's complaint,
- And like a star slow drowning in the light,
- The village church-vane 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
- 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 censer swung--
-
- Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves,
- The busy swallows, circling ever near,
- Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes,
- An early harvest and a plenteous year;--
-
- Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast,
- Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn,
- To warn the reaper of the rosy east,--
- All now was songless, empty, and forlorn.
-
- Alone from out the stubble piped the quail,
- And croaked the crow through all the 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 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 cheerless air,
- And where the woodbine shed upon the porch
- Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood there
- Firing the floor with his inverted torch;
-
- Amid all this, the center of the scene,
- The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread,
- Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien,
- Sat, like a 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,--
- Re-gave the swords to rust upon the wall.
-
- Re-gave the swords, -- but not the hand 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 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 his hands serene;--
- And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud,
- While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene.
"The Closing Scene" is
reprinted from The Little Book of American Poets: 1787-1900.
Ed. Jessie B. Rittenhouse. Cambridge: Riverside Press, 1915. |
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