THE CLOSING SCENE.-T. BUCHANAN READ. The following is pronounced by the Westminister Review to be unquestionably the finest American poem ever written. Within his sober realm of leafless trees, The russet year inhaled the dreamy air, The gray barns looking from their hazy hills All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued, The embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold, On slumbrous wings the vulture tried his flight, The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. The sentinel-cock upon the hill-side crew, Silent till some replying wanderer blew His alien horn, and then was heard no more. Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves, An early harvest and a plenteous year; Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast 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 sheds 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 bioom, Re-gave the swords-but not the hand that drew, Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, 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 shroudWhile Death and Winter closed the autumn scene. THE DEATH OF COPERNICUS.-EDWARD EVERETT. At length he draws near his end. He is seventy-three years of age, and he yields his work on "The Revolutions of the Heavenly Orbs" to his friends for publication. The day at last has come on which it is to be ushered into the world. It is the twenty-fourth of May, 1543. On that day-the effect, no doubt, of the intense excite ment of his mind, operating upon an exhausted frame-an effusion of blood brings him to the gates of the grave. His last hour has come; he lies stretched upon the couch from which he will never rise. The beams of the setting sun glance through the Gothic windows of his chamber; near his bedside is the armillary sphere which he has contrived to represent his theory of the heavens; his picture painted by himself, the amusement of his earlier years, hangs before him; beneath it are his astrolabe and other imperfect astronomical instruments; and around him are gathered his sorrowing disciples. The door of the apartment opens; the eye of the departing sage is turned to see who enters: it is a friend who brings him the first printed copy of his immortal treatise. He knows that in that book he contradicts all that has ever been distinctly taught by former philosophers; he knows that he has rebelled against the sway of Ptolemy, which the scientific world has acknowledged for a thousand years; he knows that the popular mind will be shocked by his innovations; he knows that the attempt will be made to press even religion into the service against him; but he knows that his book is true. He is dying, but he leaves a glorious truth as his dying bequest to the world. He bids the friend who has brought it place himself between the window and his bedside, that the sun's rays may fall upon the precious volume, and he may behold it once more before his eye grows dim. He looks upon it, takes it in his hands, presses it to his breast, and expires. But no, he is not wholly gone. A smile lights up his dying countenance; a beam of returning intelligence kindles in his eye; his lips move; and the friend who leans over him, can hear him faintly murmur the beautiful sentiments which the Christian lyrist of a later age has so finely expressed in verse: "Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell, with all your feeble light; And thou, effulgent orb of day, in brighter flames arrayed, My soul, which springs beyond thy sphere, no more demands thy aid. Ye stars are but the shining dust of my divine abode, The pavement of those heavenly courts where I shall reign with God." So died the great Columbus of the heavens. PARODY-THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood, I remember with pleasure my grandfather's goggles, And the harness, oft mended with tow-string and "toggles," The brown earthen pitcher, the nozzle-cracked pitcher, And there was the school-house, away from each dwelling, I remember the ladder that swung in the passage, Where my grandmother hung up her "pumpkin and sau sage,' To keep them away from the rat and the mouse. And thinks of the kittens we drowned in the well,- LITTLE JIM. The cottage was a thatched one, the outside old and mean, But all within that little cot was wondrous neat and clean; The night was dark and stormy, the wind was howling wild, As a patient mother sat beside the death-bed of her child; A little worn-out creature, his once bright eyes grown dim: It was a collier's wife and child, they called him little Jim. And oh to see the briny tears fast hurrying down her cheek, As she offered up the prayer, in thought, she was afraid to speak, Lest she might waken one she loved far better than her life; For she had all a mother's heart, had that poor collier's wife. With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the sufferer's bed, And prays that He would spare her boy, and take herself instead. She gets her answer from the child; soft fall the words from him, "Mother, the angels do so smile, and beckon little Jim, I have no pain, dear mother, now, but oh! I am so dry, Just moisten poor Jim's lips again, and, mother, don't you cry." With gentle, trembling haste she held the liquid to his lip; He smiled to thank her, as he took each little, tiny sip. "Tell father, when he comes from work, I said good-night to him, And, mother, now I'll go to sleep." Alas, poor little Jim! She knew that he was dying; that the child she loved so dear, Had uttered the last words she might ever hope to hear. |