Chapter 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.