The Glories Of Our Blood And State Poem by James Shirley

The Glories Of Our Blood And State

Rating: 2.8

The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings.
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With 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 late,
They 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 now,
See where the victor-victim bleeds.
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.

Samuel 17 August 2022

The futility of boastfulness and the inevitability of death.

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David Andy Onichakwe 16 April 2018

A nugget for evil men who pride in the death of poor men.

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Delia Ives 12 November 2017

The futility of nationalistic wars.

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Samson Mukalo 15 September 2014

the inevitability of death regardless of one's rank in the society.

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