Plied her swift wheel, and with her joyless mien
Sat like a Fate, and watch'd the flying thread.

14. She had known sorrow,--he had walk'd with her,
Oft supp'd, and broke with her the ashen crust;
And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust.

15. While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom,
Her country summon'd, and she gave her all;
And twice war bow'd to her his sable plume,—
Regave the swords to rust upon her wall.

16. Regave 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.

17. 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. 18. At last the thread was snapp'd, her head was bow'd; Life droop'd the distaff through his hands serene, And loving neighbors smooth'd her careful shroud,— While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene. T. BUCHANAN READ

THE END.