To a Lady, XII

Oh Death! they do thee cruel wrong, Who call thee fearful names in song, Or on the blackened canvas, throw Thy shape, in awfulness and woe. They sin, who paint thee fearful shade, A devil-shape, in shroud array’d, With arrows in thy bony hand, And shaking aye the sinner’s sand, With felon grin, and demon leer, Till Nature feels thy venom’d spear.