Songs of armageddon and other poems / George Sylvester Viereck [electronic text]

THE BOOK OF THE DEAD

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.

HUERTA

A MAN of destiny. A sword. No old maid's morals dulled his aim. He nailed the cheat upon the board, Then, stolid Indian, quit the game.

Nursed in men's blood by iron years, Though red his hands, though short his span— We raise our glass in silence: Here's No text-book pedant, but a man.

ADOLPHUS BUSCH: AVE ATQUE VALE

THEY brought his body to the shore Across a thousand leagues of sea, Like to some merchant prince of yore, A master of the things that be.

Though vanquished in the final strife, He was a victor, for he passed Not the grim threshold till from life He wrung its bounties to the last.

And gazing back upon his span At eve, he saw and was content: His day was worthy of a man, A faithful steward's, wisely spent.

Death, though it slew him, left no sting: He conquered fortune and he won Men's hearts. Then, spare your tears, and bring Bright garlands garnered in the sun!

Not downcast men nor gloomy thought, But gladness and the song of birds, The memory of his deeds well-wrought, His gentle smile, his kindly words.

Great was his soul. He gave thereof, He clung not to the golden clod And, through the miracle of love, Rose, spite that Needle's Eye, to God.