Where sang the noisy martens 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 sunless, 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 moved 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 centre 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 the 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 dropt the distaff through his hands serene;
  And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud,
    While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene.

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

* * * * *

THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS.

[The Spanish-American War, 1898.]

  A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here’s to the Captain bold,
  And never forget the Commodore’s debt when the deeds of might are
          told! 
  They stand to the deck through the battle’s wreck when the great
          shells roar and screech—­
  And never they fear when the foe is near to practise what they
          preach: 
  But off with your hat and three times three for Columbia’s true-blue
          sons,
  The men below who batter the foe—­the men behind the guns!