Classic Poem

The king was dead. His body lay
In splendor stern and grim,
While round him fell the dying day,
Sifted through windows dim.

His sword within his nerveless hand
Was clasped as when in life,
'Mid battle-clouds, that dreadful brand
Had flashed and led the strife.

Beside his gray and stately head
His jeweled crown was set
In readiness, as though the dead
Had need to wear it yet.

And flags from many a battle-plain,
Standing about his bier,
Told of rebellious chieftains slain,
And nations taught to fear.

There, too, steel-clad and tipped with snow,
Erect and proudly tall,
Were ranged swart sentinels, arow
Like pillars of the hall.

And all day long, with curious stare,
And timid, bated breath,
The people gazed upon him there,
Dead, yet defying death.

Right royal seemed his upturned face,
For on it lingered still
The majesty of all his race,
And of his own high will.

The king was dead. Before God's throne
A soul stood in the light, —
Abject, misshapen, stripped, alone,
And shriveled with affright.