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！'
