As long as I can remember, cemeteries have always held a certain fascination for me that I’ve been hard pressed to explain. Perhaps it’s the sense of history, the sense of finality, or the sense of perseverance in the face of the fact that we all meet the same fate no matter if we be prince or pauper, sinner or saint.

The community I live in has it’s own little cemetery that dates back at least two hundred years. As you walk through the cemetery you are caught up in a weird bit of time travel as the death dates slowly roll back through years until come up against the bleached white and faded stones of the 1800’s that require to you to use your fingers to try and guess their contents. The lover of history in me is - for some reason - pleased to note that we count amoung our alumni several Civil War Veterans, two War of 1812 Veterans, and a Revolutionary War Veteran.

Sadest of all are the tiny tombstones, the ones for the babies and children that died young. Which brings us to today’s poem by Aphra Behn.

Epitaph on the Tombstone of a Child, the Last of Seven that Died Before #

This Little, Silent, Gloomy Monument,
Contains all that was sweet and innocent ;
The softest pratler that e’er found a Tongue,
His Voice was Musick and his Words a Song ;
Which now each List’ning Angel smiling hears,
Such pretty Harmonies compose the Spheres;
Wanton as unfledg’d Cupids, ere their Charms
Has learn’d the little arts of doing harms ;
Fair as young Cherubins, as soft and kind,
And tho translated could not be refin’d ;
The Seventh dear pledge the Nuptial Joys had given,
Toil’d here on Earth, retir’d to rest in Heaven ;
Where they the shining Host of Angels fill,
Spread their gay wings before the Throne, and smile.