To the Queen

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!’