Alice of Monmouth VIII
Spake each mother to her son,Ere an ancient field was won:“Spartan, who me your mother call,Our country is mother of us all;In her you breathe, and move, and are.In peace, for her to live—in war,For her to die—is, gloriously,A patriot to live and die!”
The times are now as grand as thenWith dauntless women, earnest men;For thus the mothers whom we knowBade their sons to battle go;And, with a smile, the loyal NorthSent her million freemen forth.
“What men should stronger-hearted beThan we, who dwell by the open sea,Tilling the lands our fathers wonIn battle on the Monmouth Plains?Ah! a memory remains,Telling us what they have done,Teaching us what we should do.Let us send our rightful share,—Hard-handed yeomen, horsemen rare,A hundred riders fleet and true.”
A hundred horsemen, led by Hugh:“Were he still here,” their captain thought,“The brave old man who trained my youth,What a leader he would makeWhere the battle’s topmost billows break!The crimes which brought our land to ruth,How in his soul they would have wrought!God help me, no deed of mine shall shameThe honor of my grandsire’s name;And my father shall see how pure and goodRuns in these veins the olden blood.”
Shore and inland their men have sent:Away, to the mounted regiment,The silver-hazed Potomac heights,The circling raids, the hundred fights,The booth, the bivouac, the tent.Away, from the happy Monmouth farms,To noontide marches, night alarms,Death in the shadowy oaken glades,Emptied saddles, broken blades,—All the turmoil that soldiers knowWho gallop to meet a mortal foe,Some to conquer, some to fall:War hath its chances for one and all.
Heroes, who render up their livesOn the country’s fiery altar-stone—They do not offer themselves alone.What shall become of the soldiers’ wives?They stay behind in the lonely cots,Weeding the humble garden-plots;Some to speed the needle and thread,For the soldiers’ children must be fed;All to sigh, through the toilsome day,And at night teach lisping lips to prayFor the fathers marching far away.
Words in this poem
- dauntless a.
- Incapable of being daunted; undaunted; bold; fearless; intrepid.
- bade
- A form of the pat tense of Bid.
- dwell v. i.
- To delay; to linger. [OE. dwellen, dwelien, to err, linger, AS. dwellan to deceive, hinder, delay, dwelian to err; akin to Icel. dvelja to delay, tarry, Sw. dväljas to dwell, Dan. dv]
- rightful a.
- Righteous; upright; just; good; -- said of persons.
- ruth n.
- Sorrow for the misery of another; pity; tenderness. [From Rue, v.: cf. Icel. hryggedh, hrygedh.]
- shall v. i.
- To owe; to be under obligation for. [OE. shal, schal, imp. sholde, scholde, AS. scal, sceal, I am obliged, imp. scolde, sceolde, inf. sculan; akin to OS. skulan, pres. skal, imp. skolda, D. zullen,]
- grandsire n.
- Specifically, a grandfather; more generally, any ancestor. [OF. grantsire. See Grand, and Sire.]
- olden a.
- Old; ancient; as, the olden time.
- noontide n.
- The time of noon; midday. [From noon + tide time; cf. AS. n the ninth hour.]
- oaken a.
- Made or consisting of oaks or of the wood of oaks. [AS. acen.]
- turmoil v. t.
- To harass with commotion; to disquiet; to worry.
- weeding
- a. & n. from Weed, v. Weeding chisel, a tool with a divided chisel-like end, for cutting the roots of large weeds under ground.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Alice of Monmouth VIII is in the public domain. This text is taken from The poetical works of Edmund Clarence Stedman, Project Gutenberg ebook #70763; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Edmund Clarence Stedman, Alice of Monmouth VIII, in The Poetical Works of Edmund Clarence Stedman (1860–1897), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #70763, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/stedman-poems/alice-of-monmouth-viii.html, id L10666.
Form and metre
Alice of Monmouth VIII is 59 lines in 6 verse paragraphs. It is in rhyming couplets, 58% of the lines: octosyllabic couplets. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 86%). 87% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 8.3 syllables. 2 lines end on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 19% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in octosyllabic couplets, 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 AABB---- sonA · wonA · callB · allB · are · war · gloriously · die
- 2 AABBCC thenA · menA · knowB · goB · northC · forthC
- 3 AABCCBDEED beA · seaA · wonB · plainsC · remainsC · doneB · doD · shareE · rareE · trueD
- 4 -ABCCBADDEE hugh · thoughtA · youthB · makeC · breakC · ruthB · wroughtA · shameD · nameD · goodE · bloodE
- 5 AABBACCDDEEFF sentA · regimentA · heightsB · fightsB · tentA · farmsC · alarmsC · gladesD · bladesD · knowE · foeE · fallF · allF
- 6 ABBACCDDEEE livesA · stoneB · aloneB · wivesA · cotsC · plotsC · threadD · fedD · dayE · prayE · awayE
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 |
|---|---|---|
| Spake each mother to her son, | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| Ere an ancient field was won: | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| “Spartan, who me your mother call, | 8 | /˘···/˘· |
| Our country is mother of us all; | 10 | /˘/˘·/˘··· |
| In her you breathe, and move, and are. | 8 | ········ |
| In peace, for her to live—in war, | 8 | ········ |
| For her to die—is, gloriously, | 9 | ·····/˘˘˘ |
| A patriot to live and die!” | 8 | ·/˘˘···· |
| The times are now as grand as then | 8 | ········ |
| With dauntless women, earnest men; | 8 | ·/˘/˘/˘· |
| For thus the mothers whom we know | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Bade their sons to battle go; | 7 | ····/˘· |
| And, with a smile, the loyal North | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Sent her million freemen forth. | 7 | ··/˘/˘· |
| “What men should stronger-hearted be | 8 | ···/˘/˘· |
| Than we, who dwell by the open sea, | 9 | ······/˘· |
| Tilling the lands our fathers won | 9 | /˘··/˘/˘· |
| In battle on the Monmouth Plains? | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| Ah! a memory remains, | 7 | ··/˘˘˘/ |
| Telling us what they have done, | 7 | /˘····· |
| Teaching us what we should do. | 7 | /˘····· |
| Let us send our rightful share,— | 8 | ···/˘/˘· |
| Hard-handed yeomen, horsemen rare, | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| A hundred riders fleet and true.” | 9 | ·/˘˘/˘··· |
| A hundred horsemen, led by Hugh: | 9 | ·/˘˘/˘··· |
| “Were he still here,” their captain thought, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| “The brave old man who trained my youth, | 9 | ······˘·· |
| What a leader he would make | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| Where the battle’s topmost billows break! | 9 | ··/˘/˘/˘· |
| The crimes which brought our land to ruth, | 9 | ····/˘··· |
| How in his soul they would have wrought! | 8 | ········ |
| God help me, no deed of mine shall shame | 9 | ········· |
| The honor of my grandsire’s name; | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| And my father shall see how pure and good | 10 | ··/˘······ |
| Runs in these veins the olden blood.” | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Shore and inland their men have sent: | 8 | ··/····· |
| Away, to the mounted regiment, | 9 | ˘/··/˘/˘˘ |
| The silver-hazed Potomac heights, | 9 | ·/˘·˘˘/˘· |
| The circling raids, the hundred fights, | 10 | ·/˘˘··/˘˘· |
| The booth, the bivouac, the tent. | 7 | ···/˘·· |
| Away, from the happy Monmouth farms, | 9 | ˘/··/˘/˘· |
| To noontide marches, night alarms, | 8 | ·/˘/˘·˘/ |
| Death in the shadowy oaken glades, | 9 | ···/˘˘/˘· |
| Emptied saddles, broken blades,— | 7 | /˘/˘/˘· |
| All the turmoil that soldiers know | 8 | ··/··/˘· |
| Who gallop to meet a mortal foe, | 9 | ·/˘···/˘· |
| Some to conquer, some to fall: | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| War hath its chances for one and all. | 9 | ···/˘···· |
| Heroes, who render up their lives | 8 | /˘·/˘··· |
| On the country’s fiery altar-stone— | 10 | ··/˘/˘˘/˘· |
| They do not offer themselves alone. | 9 | ···/˘˘/˘/ |
| What shall become of the soldiers’ wives? | 9 | ··˘/··/˘· |
| They stay behind in the lonely cots, | 9 | ······/˘· |
| Weeding the humble garden-plots; | 8 | /˘·/˘/˘· |
| Some to speed the needle and thread, | 8 | ····/˘·· |
| For the soldiers’ children must be fed; | 9 | ··/˘/˘··· |
| All to sigh, through the toilsome day, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| And at night teach lisping lips to pray | 9 | ····/˘··· |
| For the fathers marching far away. | 9 | ··/˘/˘·˘/ |
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.