The door of Death is made of gold,
That mortal eyes cannot behold;
But when the mortal eyes are clos’d,
And cold and pale the limbs repos’d,
The soul awakes; and, wond’ring, sees
In her mild hand the golden Keys:
The Grave is Heaven’s Golden Gate,
And rich and poor around it wait;
O Shepherdess of England’s fold,
Behold this Gate of Pearl and Gold!
To dedicate to England’s Queen
The visions that my soul has seen,
And, by her kind permission, bring
What I have borne on solemn wing,
From the vast regions of the Grave,
Before her throne my wings I wave;
Bowing before my Sov’reign’s feet,
‘The Grave produc’d these blossoms sweet
In mild repose from earthly strife;
The blossoms of Eternal Life!’