‘See truth, love and mercy in triumph descending,
And nature all glowing in Eden’s first bloom;
On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending.
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.’
With the honorable exception of some towns and districts in our country, the epitaphs and monumental inscriptions are utterly beneath criticism. The greater portion are from Watts, and the other minor poets, too often little more than extravagant, coarse, miserable conceits. Here and there, a beautiful quotation from the Bible, such as ‘Blessed are the dead, who die in the Lord;’ ‘Man cometh forth, like a flower, and is cut down,’ only serve to render the worthlessness of the remainder more conspicuous by contrast. What adds to the unpleasant effect is, that no inconsiderable portion of them are absolutely misspelt, to say nothing of the punctuation. Strange, that survivors should incur the expense of a slab, and permit a stone-cutter to select, spell, and point the inscriptions. It is to be hoped, that some competent writer will, ere long, take in hand this matter, so vital to the literary reputation of our country, and introduce a thorough and general reform, by wiping away this national stain, and introducing that beautiful and sublime simplicity, which ought always to characterize monumental inscriptions.
Akin to the bad taste of this sort, is the slovenly manner in which our church-yards are kept, in whole sections of the country. Who has not felt pain, at seeing many and even most of these places sacred to memory, in the western county especially, uninclosed, trampled upon by cattle, and the narrow heap of turf disturbed by swine?
Of writers, whose works have been immortalized by the muse of melancholy, I am acquainted, in the French language, with Chateaubriand, who has produced occasional passages of this class not to be surpassed; and Lamartine, whose poetry breathes a rich and deep strain of melancholy. Young’s Night Thoughts, Blair’s Grave, and Porteus ‘on Death,’ are celebrated English specimens of this class of poetry. In our country the Thanatopsis of Bryant ranks quite as high as either of the former writers in this walk. Some of the lines are of exquisite beauty, as paintings of the trophies of the tomb. Another age will do justice to many of the thoughts in the Sorotaphion of a young poet, who has written on the remote shores of Red River.
The first lines of the inscription on the famous Roman statue of Sleep are the sublimest concentration of melancholy thought:
‘It is better to sleep, than wake; and best of all to be in marble.’