The Angel of Death

     Spirit of Truth & Light,
In thy dim retinue, gliding to her place
     Among the Impalpables, now new to sight – 
     I see a pallid spirit clothed in white.
Slender & tall & full of virgin grace,
     Her still, gray eyes unfathomed as the night;
Faintly & purely is her pensive face
O’ercast with bloom, a soft, elusive trace,
Like a chaste Lily to whom Red Rose flings
     A kiss from its warm lips on glancing light;
In one pale hand a torch reversed she brings
          Like that which Hymen bears to shed
A new life’s roseate dawn when true loves wed.—
Stil is it warm, & still the quenched flame clings,
     As a blue wraith, the ghost of radiance dead!
White violets paint the passing of her feet,
     From her robe’s rippling are white roses sown,
     And faint myosotis with bids half flown;
Who then is she so purely pale & sweet?

“A being of many forms that gazers bring
From their own consciousness, to blinded fear
     And weeping love, a dread & gruesome thing
     To souls of ruder mould a skeleton king.
A dart his scepter & his trove a bier.
To wily priest an ally of dark power
Crouching to wait the inevitable hour;
But Wisdom, calm in philosophic trust,
Knowing that love is life & God is just,—
Beholds in her the messenger of bliss,
     The pale Death-Angel, opener of the gate,
Usher of souls to fairer worlds than this,
     Where loves forgone your blest deliverance wait;
Her torch, still hymeneal, here reversed,
Upright it burns beyond to light their first
     Consociate heart-beat in their new estate.

“Along the lagar-house of woe,
     Through squalid cabins of the poor,
In dens that are but graves below
     The unlettered flags that roof the sewer,
She moves, with slow & silent tread.
     Wherever pain & misery wait
     The opening of some golden gate,
In hope that is but feebler dread.
No smile is on that face replete
     With tenderness serene & sweet,
     Yet is it full of light & love,
     As a young mother’s bent above
     Her sleeping baby, just before
     She gives him to the night once more,
          Quenching her lamp, & leaves him there
In the great brooding Love’s mysterious care.
          So stoops that pallid Angel o’er
     The world-worn heart, with love serene;
     Some call her in their anguish keen,
          Some for despair, a fate more drear,
     And some, for wantonness & spleen;
          Yet shrink & shudder when they hear
     The rustle of her robes unseen.
     And many a poor wretch lone, & sad,
          With helpless ills, for fear to miss
     Her kindly touch, & hunger mad.
          Leap headlong to her good-night kiss.

     “She soothes the restless into rest,
          She shuts in peace the eyes that weep,
     And calming every ruffled breast,
          She giveth her beloved sleep!
     Their gathering candles all burned out,
          She leaves them, passionless & stark,
So deep to world-wise human doubt,
To faith so starred with hope, & loving trust
That the great brooding Love will make the uneven just!”