10 Best Famous Epitaph Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Epitaph poems. This is a select list of the best famous Epitaph poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Epitaph poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of epitaph poems.

• All Famous Epitaph Poems

I went up and down the streets
Here and there by day and night,
Through all hours of the night caring for the poor who were sick.
Do you know why?
My wife hated me, my son went to the dogs.
And I turned to the people and poured out my love to them.
Sweet it was to see the crowds about the lawns on the day of my funeral,
And hear them murmur their love and sorrow.
But oh, dear God, my soul trembled, scarcely able
To hold to the railing of the new life
When I saw Em Stanton behind the oak tree
At the grave,
Hiding herself, and her grief!

 Interr'd beneath this marble stone, 
Lie saunt'ring Jack and idle Joan. 
While rolling threescore years and one 
Did round this globe their courses run; 
If human things went ill or well; 
If changing empires rose or fell; 
The morning passed, the evening came, 
And found this couple still the same. 
They walk'd and eat, good folks: what then? 
Why then they walk'd and eat again: 
They soundly slept the night away: 
They did just nothing all the day: 
And having buried children four, 
Would not take pains to try for more. 
Nor sister either had, nor brother: 
They seemed just tallied for each other. 
Their moral and economy 
Most perfectly they made agree: 
Each virtue kept its proper bound, 
Nor tresspass'd on the other's ground. 
Nor fame, nor censure they regarded: 
They neither punish'd nor rewarded. 
He cared not what the footmen did: 
Her maids she neither prais'd nor chid: 
So ev'ry servant took his course; 
And bad at first, they all grew worse. 
Slothful disorder fill'd his stable; 
And sluttish plenty deck'd her table. 
Their beer was strong; their wine was port; 
Their meal was large; their grace was short. 
They gave the poor the remnant-meat 
Just when it grew not fit to eat. 
They paid the church and parish rate; 
And took, but read not the receipt; 
For which they claim'd their Sunday's due, 
Of slumb'ring in an upper pew. 
No man's defects sought they to know; 
So never made themselves a foe. 
No man's good deeds did they commend; 
So never rais'd themselves a friend. 
Nor cherish'd they relations poor: 
That might decrease their present store: 
Nor barn nor house did they repair: 
That might oblige their future heir. 
They neither added, nor confounded: 
They neither wanted, nor abounded. 
Each Christmas they accompts did clear; 
And wound their bottom through the year. 
Nor tear, nor smile did they employ 
At news of public grief, or joy. 
When bells were rung, and bonfires made, 
If asked they ne'er denied their aid: 
Their jug was to the ringers carried, 
Whoever either died, or married. 
Their billet at the fire was found, 
Whoever was depos'd or crown'd. 
Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise; 
They would not learn, nor could advise; 
Without love, hatred, joy, or fear, 
They led--a kind of--as it were: 
Nor wish'd nor car'd, nor laugh'd nor cry'd: 
And so they liv'd; and so they died.

 IS there a whim-inspirèd fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
 Let him draw near;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
 And drap a tear.


Is there a bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng,
 O, pass not by!
But, with a frater-feeling strong,
 Here, heave a sigh.


Is there a man, whose judgment clear
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life’s mad career,
 Wild as the wave,
Here pause—and, thro’ the starting tear,
 Survey this grave.


The poor inhabitant below
Was quick to learn the wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
 And softer flame;
But thoughtless follies laid him low,
 And stain’d his name!


Reader, attend! whether thy soul
Soars fancy’s flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,
 In low pursuit:
Know, prudent, cautious, self-control
 Is wisdom’s root.

 Here lies the body of this world, 
Whose soul alas to hell is hurled. 
This golden youth long since was past, 
Its silver manhood went as fast, 
An iron age drew on at last; 
'Tis vain its character to tell, 
The several fates which it befell, 
What year it died, when 'twill arise, 
We only know that here it lies.

 KNOW thou, O stranger to the fame
Of this much lov’d, much honoured name!
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart death ne’er made cold.

 What needs my Shakespeare for his honored bones
The labor of an age in piled stones?
Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid
Under a star-ypointing pyramid?
Dear son of Memory, great heir of Fame,
What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thy self a livelong monument.
For whilst, to th' shame of slow-endeavoring art,
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving,
And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

Here lies the body of John Crow,
Who once was high, but now is low;
Ye brother Crows take warning all,
For as you rise, so must you fall.

 TO these whom death again did wed
This grave 's the second marriage-bed.
For though the hand of Fate could force
'Twixt soul and body a divorce,
It could not sever man and wife,
Because they both lived but one life.
Peace, good reader, do not weep;
Peace, the lovers are asleep.
They, sweet turtles, folded lie
In the last knot that love could tie.
Let them sleep, let them sleep on,
Till the stormy night be gone,
And the eternal morrow dawn;
Then the curtains will be drawn,
And they wake into a light
Whose day shall never die in night.

 Here lies a most beautiful lady, 
Light of step and heart was she; 
I think she was the most beautiful lady 
That ever was in the West Country. 

But beauty vanishes, beauty passes; 
However rare -- rare it be; 
And when I crumble,who will remember 
This lady of the West Country.

 This rich Marble doth enterr
The honour'd Wife of Winchester,
A Vicounts daughter, an Earls heir,
Besides what her vertues fair
Added to her noble birth,
More then she could own from Earth.
Summers three times eight save one
She had told, alas too soon,
After so short time of breath,
To house with darknes, and with death. 
Yet had the number of her days
Bin as compleat as was her praise,
Nature and fate had had no strife
In giving limit to her life.
Her high birth, and her graces sweet,
Quickly found a lover meet;
The Virgin quire for her request
The God that sits at marriage feast;
He at their invoking came
But with a scarce-wel-lighted flame; 
And in his Garland as he stood,
Ye might discern a Cipress bud.
Once had the early Matrons run
To greet her of a lovely son,
And now with second hope she goes,
And calls Lucina to her throws;
But whether by mischance or blame
Atropos for Lucina came;
And with remorsles cruelty,
Spoil'd at once both fruit and tree: 
The haples Babe before his birth
Had burial, yet not laid in earth,
And the languisht Mothers Womb
Was not long a living Tomb.
So have I seen som tender slip
Sav'd with care from Winters nip,
The pride of her carnation train,
Pluck't up by som unheedy swain,
Who onely thought to crop the flowr
New shot up from vernall showr; 
But the fair blossom hangs the head
Side-ways as on a dying bed,
And those Pearls of dew she wears,
Prove to be presaging tears
Which the sad morn had let fall
On her hast'ning funerall.
Gentle Lady may thy grave
Peace and quiet ever have;
After this thy travail sore
Sweet rest sease thee evermore, 
That to give the world encrease,
Shortned hast thy own lives lease;
Here besides the sorrowing
That thy noble House doth bring,
Here be tears of perfect moan
Weept for thee in Helicon,
And som Flowers, and som Bays,
For thy Hears to strew the ways,
Sent thee from the banks of Came,
Devoted to thy vertuous name; 
Whilst thou bright Saint high sit'st in glory,
Next her much like to thee in story,
That fair Syrian Shepherdess,
Who after yeers of barrennes,
The highly favour'd Joseph bore
To him that serv'd for her before,
And at her next birth much like thee,
Through pangs fled to felicity,
Far within the boosom bright
of blazing Majesty and Light, 
There with thee, new welcom Saint,
Like fortunes may her soul acquaint,
With thee there clad in radiant sheen,
No Marchioness, but now a Queen.