THE CLOSING SCENE. The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl, The waves are broken precious stones- Washed from celestial basement walls Out through the utmost gates of space, Yet loses not her anchorage Here sit I, as a little child: The threshold of God's door Glad when is opened to my need Some sea-like glimpse of thee. LUCY LARCOM. The Closing Scene. WITHIN his sober realm of leafless trees The russet year inhaled the dreamy air; Like some tanned reaper in his hours of ease, When all the fields are lying brown and bare. 413 The gray barns looking from their hazy hills All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued, The hills seemed farther and the stream 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, On slumberous wings the vulture tried his flight; The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. The sentinel-cock upon the hillside crew- His alien horn, and then was heard no more. Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest Where sung the noisy masons of the eaves, An early harvest and a plenteous year; Where every bird that charmed the vernal feast Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, To warn the reaper of the rosy east ;- THE CLOSING SCENE. Alone from out the stubble piped the quail; 415 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 thistledown, 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 centre of the scene, The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread, She had known sorrow,--he had walked with her, While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, Re-gave the sword, but not the hand that drew Nor him who, to his sire and country true, Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, 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; Light drooped the distaff through her hand serene; And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene. THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. I Ships at Sea. HAVE ships that went to sea, None have yet come home to me, I have seen them in my sleep, I have wondered why they strayed That their sails will ne'er be furled.” Fill with fragrance all the air, Ah! each sailor in the port Knows that I have ships at sea, Rise and fall, rise and falı. SHIPS AT SEA. I have waited on the piers, Gazing for them down the bay, Days and nights for many years, Till I turned heart-sick away. But the pilots, when they land, Stop and take me by the hand, Saying, "You will live to see Your proud vessels come from sea, One and all, one and all." So I never quite despair, Nor let hope or courage fail; That is lost, that is lost. Once, when I was pure and young, Or a wrinkle creased my brow, There was one whose heart was mine; They can bring no heart to me Evermore, evermore. 417 ROBERT B. COFFIN. |