Beautiful Granite Sculptures of Hope Cemetery

I often view cemeteries as little towns for the deceased, many times wonder what it would feel like to live nearby. I lack the ability to communicate with the dead, wanted so bad to communicate and dream of my mom, but that has only happened once or twice since she passed. Some of my sisters are more fortunate, as my second sister often dreams of my mom, as if she were still alive and well, this I would give anything to be able to do.

Some of these cemeteries are the resting places of many famous people; I grew up in Queens NY which is known as the Cemetery Belt because there are more than 5 millions of the departed, including the famous and the infamous from Mae West to Lucky Luciano, almost triple the live population of Queens are buried in 29 Queens cemeteries, as one could imagine how crowded Queens is.

Then I came across a cemetery in Barre, Vermont, a town known as the Granite Capital of the World, as Hope cemetery presents a rich and distinguished history of memorial art in stone, one of the oldest expressions of American Culture. For these reasons, Hope exerts a profound influence on the memorial art of other cemeteries throughout the country.

Hope Cemetery, first opened in 1895, is 85-acres spread across a hillock of well-manicured grass. Despite the variety of memorial design, there is a uniformity not seen in other cemeteries. That’s because every one of the 10,000+ monuments is made of Barre Gray granite.

The cemetery is a popular tourist destination, oft bundled with Rock of Ages quarry tours. Visitors can stroll the grounds and pay their respects to older sculptures, or ponder more contemporary works, such as an enigmatic cube balanced on one corner. Below are beautiful sculptures…that art lovers will definitely enjoy.

A half-size replica of race car #61 celebrates local driver Joey Laquerre, Jr, who died in a 1991 snowmobile mishap.

“The Empty Chair.” Perhaps future Bettinis will eternally rest beneath “The Plasma TV.”

Hobbies of the dead are remembered, with a soccer ball.

Brusa’s own grave features a strange sculpture of “The Dying Man,” slipping away, held by his wife.

Source

THANATOPSIS

by: William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878)

• O him who in the love of Nature holds

  Communion with her visible forms, she speaks

  A various language; for his gayer hours

  She has a voice of gladness, and a smile

  And eloquence of beauty, and she glides

  Into his darker musings, with a mild

  And healing sympathy, that steals away

  Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts

  Of the last bitter hour come like a blight

  Over thy spirit, and sad images

  Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,

  And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,

  Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart;–

  Go forth, under the open sky, and list

  To Nature’s teachings, while from all around–

  Earth and her waters, and the depths of air–

  Comes a still voice–Yet a few days, and thee

  The all-beholding sun shall see no more

  In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,

  Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,

  Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

  Thy image. Earth, that nourish’d thee, shall claim

  Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,

  And, lost each human trace, surrendering up

  Thine individual being, shalt thou go

  To mix for ever with the elements,

  To be a brother to the insensible rock,

  And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain

  Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak

  Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

  Yet not to thine eternal resting-place

  Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish

  Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down

  With patriarchs of the infant world–with kings,

  The powerful of the earth–the wise, the good,

  Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,

  All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills

  Rock-ribb’d and ancient as the sun,–the vales

  Stretching in pensive quietness between;

  The venerable woods; rivers that move

  In majesty, and the complaining brooks

  That make the meadows green; and, pour’d round all,

  Old Ocean’s grey and melancholy waste,–

  Are but the solemn decorations all

  Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,

  The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,

  Are shining on the sad abodes of death,

  Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread

  The globe are but a handful to the tribes

  That slumber in its bosom.–Take the wings

  Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,

  Or lose thyself in the continuous woods

  Where rolls the Oregon and hears no sound

  Save his own dashings–yet the dead are there:

  And millions in those solitudes, since first

  The flight of years began, have laid them down

  In their last sleep–the dead reign there alone.

  So shalt thou rest: and what if thou withdraw

  In silence from the living, and no friend

  Take note of thy departure? All that breathe

  Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh

  When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care

  Plod on, and each one as before will chase

  His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave

  Their mirth and their employments, and shall come

  And make their bed with thee. As the long train

  Of ages glides away, the sons of men,

  The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes

  In the full strength of years, matron and maid,

  The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man–

  Shall one by one be gathered to thy side

  By those who in their turn shall follow them.

  So live, that when thy summons comes to join

  The innumerable caravan which moves

  To that mysterious realm where each shall take

  His chamber in the silent halls of death,

  Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,

  Scourged by his dungeon; but, sustain’d and soothed

  By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,

  Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

  About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.