Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE CROWNING OF THE KING, by JOHN LAURENCE RENTOUL


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE CROWNING OF THE KING, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Now within its narrow hall
Last Line: By that chrism of tears.
Alternate Author Name(s): Gage, Gervais
Subject(s): Death; Funerals; Graves; Grief; Rest; Dead, The; Burials; Tombs; Tombstones; Sorrow; Sadness


Now within its narrow hall
Is the coffin laid;
Soon the closing clods shall fall
From the sexton's spade,

And the mourners forward press,
Silent all and pale:
Hearts that know Grief's utterness
May not weep or wail!

Gaze they wistfully and long
On the coffined clay:
God, our Lord! the ties are strong
Thou dost reave away!

But from all the outer crowd
Tears unstinted flow,
And the women sob aloud
In their woman-woe.

This that lieth in the grave
Is their Parson's son,
Dead when boyhood, bright and brave,
Youthhood's verge had won.

Mourned for worth that was his own,
Frank of soul and face;
And he leaves his father lone,
Last of name and race.

Then, uplifted, sorrow-strong,
Rose a pleading cry;
And a woman, through the throng,
Drew the grave anigh.

"I was nurse to him that's dead,
When a little one,
And I loved him, Sir," she said,
"As he were my son;

"And for many a weary mile
Have I come—in vain!—
Hoping I might see him smile,
Hear him speak, again.

"Master, by the gentle grace
Of the olden day,
Let me, once more, see his face:
Do not say me 'nay'!"

Slowly was the answer sped,
Labouring with its pain,—
"Love like this," the father said,
"Shall not plead in vain."

And the dead face was made bare,
O, a sacred sight!—
Nestling all untroubled, fair,
'Mid the linen white.

Heedless now of labouring breath,
Heart-ache, pain, and sighs,
Sat the majesty of Death
Silent on his eyes.

And a hush, Death's undertone,
On the mourners fell—
As if Silence from God's throne
Had grown audible.

Deathlike-still the woman stood,
Pale as was the dead;
Mute with Death's own solitude,
Not one word she said.

So, a statue of dumb pain
For a little space:—
Then her tears fell fast as rain
On the sleeping face.

Shot a sudden shaft of light
From a riven cloud,
Flickered on the forehead white,
Flickered on the shroud;

Gathered round the temples now
In a golden ring,
As a crown might bind the brow
Of a sleeping King.

Caught within its rim each tear
Trembled like a gem:
Technist never did ensphere
Rarer diadem.

Gift this wide world never gave
Jesus half so sweet
As when Mary's love did lave
From Love's fount His feet!

Father, let your heart be calmed!
Through the weary years,
Know, your dead one lies embalmed
By that chrism of tears.





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