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erewhile armed in gold, Their banners bright with every martial hue, Now stood like some sad beaten host of old Withdrawn afar in Time’s remotest blue.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 slumberous wings the vulture held his flight; The dove scarce heard his sighing 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 hill-side 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 eves, The busy swallows, circling ever near, Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, An early harvest and a plenteous year:— Where every bird that charmed the vernal feast, Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, And warned the reaper of the rosy east— All now was songless, empty and forlorn. Alone from out the stubble piped the quail, While 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 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 her 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.