The Door of Death is made of gold，

    That mortal eyes cannot behold¹；

    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 repose² from earthly strife³；

    The blossoms of Eternal Life！'

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