Parnell's Night-Piece on Death, Part 4: The Ending

The yew tree, a house of bones, cackling ravens, and a shocking revelation from Death Incarnate.

These are just a few of the genre conventions you’ll find in tonight’s episode of…

18th Century Graveyard Poetry:
Parnell’s Night-Piece on Death
Thomas Parnell, 1718 (published posthumously in 1722)
Part 4: The Ending

[Heads up: This is my fourth installment on Graveyard Poetry. For the first entry, go here.]

Since this is 2020 and a series of disasters have prevented me from posting this in a timely manner, let me begin with a quick recap of the previous entries: Our dear narrator, sick and tired of poring over the Classics by candlelight, steps outside for a midnight stroll in the churchyard, hoping for a flash of insight, a moment of clarity. As he passes the gardens, the church, and the graves, he realizes that the only certainty in life… is death.

Then there was the business about unmarked coffins made from wiener-roasting sticks, signifying that the departed poor end up nameless and forgotten. Middle class folks get proper gravestones at least, and the rich and famous are laid to rest in elaborate tombs. As our narrator contemplates the human ego, a host of ghosts bursts from the earth and urges him to consider instead the meaning of his own inevitable end.

And now, in contrast to previous entries, I’m going to put the poetry first and let Death speak for Itself. So let’s jump right in, and I’ll see you on the other side.

     Now from yon black and fun'ral Yew,

That bathes the Charnel House with Dew,

…On second thought, let me explain a couple of things.

First of all, throughout western Europe the yew tree has long been closely associated with death and funerals. The yew can live for thousands of years, and wherever its sagging limbs touch the ground, they grow roots and begin life anew. What’s more, the yew serves as a wonderful example of Nature’s sense of humor, since this long-lived tree’s needles and seeds are fatally poisonous.

And how about the charnel house, built near the ancient yew? Back in the good ol’ days, a churchyard cemetery in a crowded city would be accompanied by an outbuilding called a charnel house. Grave sites came with a five-year lease, after which the gravediggers would dig up the grave to make room for paying customers, and they would chuck any bones they found into the charnel house. These buildings were also common in dry, windy places where the topsoil refused to stay put. Can you imagine going out for a stroll to check for storm damage—and finding human bones strewn about the ground? If that seems preposterous, remember that bodies were often buried without any form of embalming, in woven coffins made of sticks—or without any container at all—with no regulations as to depth.

Here I’ll include a short glossary for some of the more obscure terms you’ll encounter in the third stanza:

*** A Quick Glossary ***

sable stoles = fur scarves

cypress tree = a symbol of mourning

mourning poles = flags at half mast

weeds = a woman’s black mourning gown

pall = a cloth covering draped over a casket

escutcheon = an ornamental shield displaying a coat-of-arms

The important thing here is to think about how attitudes surrounding war, death, and mourning are culturally constructed. We’ve all been raised with certain beliefs surrounding death, and when it happens we are expected to react accordingly. But it doesn’t have to be this way.

And so, with imagery of unearthed bones in mind, let’s see what Death has to say on the matter:

     Now from yon black and fun'ral Yew,

That bathes the Charnel House with Dew,

Methinks I hear a Voice begin;                  55

(Ye Ravens, cease your croaking Din,

Ye tolling Clocks, no Time resound

O'er the long Lake and midnight Ground)

It sends a Peal of hollow Groans,

Thus speaking from among the Bones.      60

     When Men my Scythe and Darts supply,

How great a King of Fears am I!

They view me like the last of Things:

They make, and then they dread, my Stings.

Fools! if you less provok'd your Fears,      65

No more my Spectre-Form appears.

Death's but a Path that must be trod,

If Man wou'd ever pass to God:

A Port of Calms, a State of Ease

From the rough Rage of swelling Seas.     70

     Why then thy flowing sable Stoles,

Deep pendent Cypress, mourning Poles,

Loose Scarfs to fall athwart thy Weeds,

Long Palls, drawn Herses, cover'd Steeds,

And Plumes of black, that as they tread,   75

Nod o'er the 'Scutcheons of the Dead?

     Nor can the parted Body know,

Nor wants the Soul, these Forms of Woe:

As men who long in Prison dwell,

With Lamps that glimmer round the Cell,  80

When e'er their suffering Years are run,

Spring forth to greet the glitt'ring Sun:

Such Joy, tho' far transcending Sense,

Have pious Souls at parting hence.

On Earth, and in the Body plac't,             85

A few, and evil Years, they wast:

But when their Chains are cast aside,

See the glad Scene unfolding wide,

Clap the glad Wing and tow'r away,

And mingle with the Blaze of Day.           90

…Do you see? Do you see what Death is telling us? If the thought of our own moment of passing upsets us so much, then why are some of us so ready to make war, or at least to wish death upon our enemies? And conversely, if we understand death as a transition from a life of hardship and chaos to a state of eternal grace, why do we bemoan the deaths of our loved ones, with black garb and sad rituals? The dearly departed are free now, released from all pain—and their bodies and souls care not for these earthly symbols of our jealous despair.

And thus concludes our first foray into the world of 18th Century Graveyard Poetry, a school of thought in which the melancholy intelligentsia of the 1700s dwelt on morality and mortality, on what it means to live a good life—and to meet a good Death.

Until next time,
Jon