To a Lady, III

I have been near the gates of death, And know ’tis hard to die; That the mortal flesh it shuddereth In the spell of death to lie: That fearful it is—the ebbing breath; And awful—the closing eye, When powerless all, it curtaineth The soul, from its loved ones by; When it closeth slow o’er the leaden gaze, That wraps, like the mariner’s home, in a haze, The dear ones that comfort us nigh.