The Roman Gravemounds
BY Rome’s dim relics there walks a man,Eyes bent; and he carries a basket and spade;I guess what impels him to scrape and scan;Yea, his dreams of that Empire long decayed.
“Vast was Rome,” he must muse, “in the world’s regard,Vast it looms there still, vast it ever will be;”And he stoops as to dig and unmine some shardLeft by those who are held in such memory.
But no; in his basket, see, he has broughtA little white furred thing, stiff of limb,Whose life never won from the world a thought;It is this, and not Rome, that is moving him.
And to make it a grave he has come to the spot,And he delves in the ancient dead’s long home;Their fames, their achievements, the man knows not;The furred thing is all to him—nothing Rome!
“Here say you that Cæsar’s warriors lie?—But my little white cat was my only friend!Could she but live, might the record dieOf Cæsar, his legions, his aims, his end!”
Well, Rome’s long rule here is oft and againA theme for the sages of history,And the small furred life was worth no one’s pen;Yet its mourner’s mood has a charm for me.
Words in this poem
- scan v. t.
- To mount by steps; to go through with step by step. [L. scandere, scansum, to climb, to scan, akin to Skr. skand to spring, leap: cf. F. scander. Cf. Ascend, Descend, Scale a ladder.]
- shard n.
- A plant; chard.
- mourner n.
- One who mourns or is grieved at any misfortune, as the death of a friend.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
The Roman Gravemounds is in the public domain. This text is taken from Satires of Circumstance, Lyrics and Reveries, with Miscellaneous Pieces, Project Gutenberg ebook #2863; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Thomas Hardy, The Roman Gravemounds, in Satires of Circumstance, Lyrics and Reveries (1914), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #2863, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/hardy-satires/the-roman-gravemounds.html, id L24092.
Form and metre
The Roman Gravemounds is 24 lines in 6 stanzas of 4 lines each. The rhyme scheme is ABAB, complete in 4 of its 6 stanzas. This poem did not settle on a metre of its own; the book it comes from is in iambic tetrameter.
See other poems in iambic tetrameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 ABAB manA · spadeB · scanA · decayedB
- 2 A-A- regardA · be · shardA · memory
- 3 ABAB broughtA · limbB · thoughtA · himB
- 4 ABAB spotA · homeB · notA · romeB
- 5 ABAB lieA · friendB · dieA · endB
- 6 A-A- againA · history · penA · me
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic tetrameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| BY Rome’s dim relics there walks a man, | 9 | ···/˘···· |
| Eyes bent; and he carries a basket and spade; | 11 | ····/˘·/˘·· |
| I guess what impels him to scrape and scan; | 10 | ···˘/····· |
| Yea, his dreams of that Empire long decayed. | 10 | ·····/˘·˘/ |
| “Vast was Rome,” he must muse, “in the world’s regard, | 11 | ·········˘/ |
| Vast it looms there still, vast it ever will be;” | 10 | ·······/·· |
| And he stoops as to dig and unmine some shard | 11 | ··········· |
| Left by those who are held in such memory. | 11 | ········/˘˘ |
| But no; in his basket, see, he has brought | 10 | ····/˘···· |
| A little white furred thing, stiff of limb, | 10 | ·/˘··˘···· |
| Whose life never won from the world a thought; | 10 | ··/˘······ |
| It is this, and not Rome, that is moving him. | 11 | ········/˘· |
| And to make it a grave he has come to the spot, | 12 | ············ |
| And he delves in the ancient dead’s long home; | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Their fames, their achievements, the man knows not; | 10 | ···˘/˘···· |
| The furred thing is all to him—nothing Rome! | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| “Here say you that Cæsar’s warriors lie?— | 9 | ·····/˘˘· |
| But my little white cat was my only friend! | 11 | ··/˘····/˘· |
| Could she but live, might the record die | 9 | ······˘/· |
| Of Cæsar, his legions, his aims, his end!” | 9 | ···/˘···· |
| Well, Rome’s long rule here is oft and again | 10 | ········˘/ |
| A theme for the sages of history, | 10 | ····/˘·/˘˘ |
| And the small furred life was worth no one’s pen; | 10 | ·········· |
| Yet its mourner’s mood has a charm for me. | 10 | ··/˘······ |
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.