By Charles Sangster



     There is a sadness o’er my spirit stealing,
     A flash of fire up-darting to my brain,
     Sowing the seeds—and still the seeds concealing—
     That are to ripen into future pain.
     I feel the germs of madness in me springing,


     Slowly, and certain, as the serpent’s bound,
     And my poor hopes, like dying tendril clinging
     To the green oak, tend surely to the ground;
     And Reason’s grasp grows feebler day by day,
     As the slow poison up my nerves is creeping,


     Ever and anon through my crushed heart leaping,
     Like a swift panther darting on its prey;
     And the bright taper Hope once fed within,
Hath waned and perished in the rueful din. [Page 94]