Ballad II: Death's Final Conquest
The glories of our birth and stateAre shadows, not substantial things;There is no armour against fate:Death lays his icy hands on kings:Scepter and crownMust tumble down,And in the dust be equal madeWith the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,And plant fresh laurels where they kill:But their strong nerves at last must yield;They tame but one another still.Early or lateThey stoop to fate,And must give up their murmuring breath,When they pale captives creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow,Then boast no more your mighty deeds;Upon death's purple altar nowSee where the victor victim bleeds:All heads must comeTo the cold tomb,Only the actions of the justSmell sweet, and blossom in the dust.
Words in this poem
- armour n.
- Defensive arms for the body; any clothing or covering worn to protect one's person in battle. [OE. armure, fr. F. armure, OF. armeure, fr. L. armatura. See Armature.]
- reap n.
- A bundle of grain; a handful of grain laid down by the reaper as it is cut. Wright. [Cf. AS. rip harvest. See Reap, v.]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Ballad II: Death's Final Conquest is in the public domain. This text is taken from Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, Volume 1 (of 3) Consisting of Old Heroic Ballads, Songs and Other Pieces of Our Earlier Poets Together With Some Few of Later Date, Project Gutenberg ebook #45939; 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 Percy, Ballad II: Death's Final Conquest, in Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, Volume I (1765), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #45939, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/percy-reliques/ballad-ii-death-s-final-conquest.html, id L08548.
Form and metre
Ballad II: Death's Final Conquest is 24 lines in 3 stanzas of 8 lines each. The rhyme scheme is ABABCCDD, complete in 2 of its 3 stanzas. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 91%). 97% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 7.2 syllables. 1 line ends on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 31% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
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 ABABCCDD stateA · thingsB · fateA · kingsB · crownC · downC · madeD · spadeD
- 2 ABABCCDD fieldA · killB · yieldA · stillB · lateC · fateC · breathD · deathD
- 3 ABAB--CC browA · deedsB · nowA · bleedsB · come · tomb · justC · dustC
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 |
|---|---|---|
| The glories of our birth and state | 8 | ·/˘·/··· |
| Are shadows, not substantial things; | 8 | ·/··˘/˘· |
| There is no armour against fate: | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Death lays his icy hands on kings: | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Scepter and crown | 4 | ···· |
| Must tumble down, | 4 | ·/˘· |
| And in the dust be equal made | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| With the poor crooked scythe and spade. | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Some men with swords may reap the field, | 8 | ········ |
| And plant fresh laurels where they kill: | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| But their strong nerves at last must yield; | 8 | ········ |
| They tame but one another still. | 8 | ····˘/˘· |
| Early or late | 4 | /˘·· |
| They stoop to fate, | 4 | ···· |
| And must give up their murmuring breath, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| When they pale captives creep to death. | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| The garlands wither on your brow, | 8 | ·/˘/˘··· |
| Then boast no more your mighty deeds; | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Upon death's purple altar now | 8 | ···/˘/˘· |
| See where the victor victim bleeds: | 8 | ···/˘/˘· |
| All heads must come | 4 | ···· |
| To the cold tomb, | 4 | ···· |
| Only the actions of the just | 8 | /˘·/˘··· |
| Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. | 8 | ···/˘··· |
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.