summary of poem Death the Leveler
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James Shirley’s ‘Death the Leveller’ is a hauntingly philosophical poem about the dismal march of death that tramples down human pride and pomp. It presents a vividly personified picture of death as the ultimate conqueror in whose realm perfect equality prevails.
The poem opens, reminding the reader of the futility of taking pride in one’s birth and state. No armour offers protection from the merciless hands of death. The ultimate leveller comes and lays his icy hands on kings and clowns alike. The sceptre and the crown of the king fall down and lie equal in the dust with the poor peasant’s scythe and spade.
Worldly victory and success too are futile before death. Some men reap and heap enemy heads in the battlefield and win laurels to adorn their heads. They too shall bow their heads before death. But poor mortals still tame and kill one another like thoughtless beasts.
Strength and courage too shall pass. We all die helpless and weak. The garlands on our heads wither and lose their charm and the victories they once proclaimed are forgotten. We too lose our charm and like pale captives we creep to death with a feeble murmur. Death’s altar is purple and no ‘blue blood’ has ever been shed there. Here the victors too, are victims. The winners too are sacrificed and sent to their cold tombs.
In the end, we must return to the dust from which we all came, but the good deeds of the just will blossom from the dust and smell sweet forever.
HOPE U GOT IT.
GREETS :)
Answer:
Stanza 1 : The glories of our blood and state are shadows. They are not concrete things. There is no armour against Fate. Death lays his cold hands even on kings. Sceptre and Crown, the symbols of a king, will fall down and they will be made equal with the sickle and spade, the tools and symbol of poor people.
Stanza 2: Some men may reap the fields with sword and plant fresh victories where they kill. But their strong nerves finally become weak. Early or late they have bend low before their fate and must give up their breath. Finally they also die, as poor, pale prisoners of fate.
Stanza 3 : The garlands on your brow dry up. So do not boast about your great actions. Upon the purple altar of death the victor and the vanquished bleed alike. However great you are, your head must come to the cold tomb. Only the good actions of the just people will flower in the dust and smell sweet.
Message: Death levels everyone. He treats all alike. All, kings and clowns, scholars and the illiterate, the rich and the poor, end up in dust