MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

By Charles Sangster


 

HENRY’S GRAVE.



Standing beside the consecrated mound,
     That marked the narrow grave wherein he lay,
I thought upon the Trumpet’s welcome sound,
     That would arouse him in the latter day.

I thought of the young spirit, that had fled

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     Beyond the keenest search of human eye—
Beyond the limits of a world of dread—
     Beyond the reach of man’s philosophy.

And as I strove to lift the distant veil—
     To track the spirit in its upward flight—

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My mind was awed—my vision seemed to fail,
     And all became confused as blackest night!

I was an atom of mere mortal mould,
     Too weak to pierce the depths that soul had trod;
Backward to earth my wandering senses rolled,

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     And my eye rested on the crumbling sod—

Part of myself—poor perishable clay!
     The child whose corse beneath my feet did lie,
Was, like myself, but mortal, yesterday,
     And now, a dweller with the blest on high!

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Oh! Mystery of Mysteries! Oh, Death!
     I sit and muse in deep solemnity,
And wonder how the dust that perisheth
     Must pass to life eternal but through thee! [Page 115]