First, then, we propose with the graces of art,
Like our Parisian friends, to make ev'ry tomb smart;
And, by changing the feelings of funeral terrors,
Remove what remain'd of old Catholic errors.
Our plan is to blend in the picturesque style
Smirke, Soane, Nash, and Wyatville all in one pile.
So novel, agreeable, and grateful our scheme,
That death will appear like a sweet summer's dream;
And the horrid idea of a gloomy, cold cell,
Will vanish like vapours of mist from a dell.
~116
Thus changed, who'll object a kind friend to inhume,
When his sepulchre's made like a gay drawing-room 1
A diversified, soothing commixture of trees,
Umbrageous and fann'd by the perfumed breeze;
With alcoves, and bowers, and fish-ponds, and shrubs,
Select, as in life, from intrusion of scrubs;
While o'er your last relics the violet-turf press
Must a flattering promise afford of success.
"Lie light on him, earth," sung a poet of old;
Our earth shall be sifted, and never grow cold;
No rude weight on your chest--how like ye our scheme {1}
Where your grave will be warm'd by a process of steam,
Which will boil all the worms and the grubs in their holes,
And preserve from decay ev'ry part but your souls.
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