THE CONQUEROR ("I, John Pierpont Morgan,... commit my soul into the hands of my Savior, in full confidence that having redeemed and washed it in His most precious blood He will present it faultless before the throne of my Heavenly Father." -- The Last Will and Testament of John Pierpont Morgan) WHEN all was silent and the gloom Grew thick, the dead man rose. The mask Slipped. Loath to tarry in the room, He glanced not at the agate casque; Nor at his tapestries, his scrolls, The ransom of an hundred kings -- For he that conquers life, his soul's Wraith is not chained to mundane things. His cane with slow, deliberate care Swinging, along the street moved he, Until he reached the Golden Stair That only dead men's eyes may see. Of newly dead a spirit host Made low obeisance when he came. Though some be saved and some be lost, He was the Master of the Game In life and death. A grunt, a nod, Thanked them,. They nudged each other's sides For each was fettered to the sod By some earth memory. A bride's Caress. A lad's clean limbs. The sheen In a child's face. A battle won. A crime. A dream. What might have been. -- August, untroubled he passed on. He puffed at his cigar. The spheres Made music. Then the ceaseless drone Of prayer went up.. By myriad tiers Encircled rose the Holy Throne. With no uncertainty of fate He brushed aside the angel throng And strode through the emblazoned gate Into the Heaven of the Strong. |