Glasgow’s city of the dead
sits high on a craig, peeking over the medieval cathedral. Wealthy merchants
founded the Necropolis in the early 1830s as a burial ground befitting their
status. Ever mindful of commerce, they stated in the charter that “it will
afford a much wanted accommodation to the higher classes…[and] would at the
same time convert an unproductive property into a general and lucrative source
of profit.” Some 50,000 souls rest here, many underneath elaborate sculptures.
The headstones tell sad stories of elderly parents whose children died young
and military officers who fell in obscure wars. Watching over all is a stern
statue of John Knox. As in Victorian times, the graveyard is a park meant for
strolling on a fine spring day when thoughts of mortality are pushed far away.
Made me want to re-read Wordsworth's "Intimations of Mortality"--the last lines are these:
ReplyDeleteThough nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind; 185
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death, 190
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquish'd one delight 195
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
Is lovely yet; 200
The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 205
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears