 | The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 |  |
On Viewing the Grave of Arthur Cradock
1
In the dark Earth his body lies—Deep hid from mortal sight;
Clos'd, ever clos'd, those beaming eyes—
That gave me such delight.
2
Cold as the turf that covers him—He whom the parent mourns;
Corruption triumphs o'er each limb—
And dust to dust returns.
3
O with what rapture viewed we all—His sweet, his manly form;
Ah, could we think so soon he'd fall—
A victim to the worm.
4
And yet that body cloth'd a mind—That with devotion glow'd;
And could no solid pleasure find—
But in the love of God.
5
And yet those eyes so mildly bright—Trac'd out creation's laws;
And guided by celestial light—
Discern'd th'Almighty Cause.
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6
And yet that form display'd a Soul—In every grace complete;
Which every passion could control—
Serene, sublimely great.
7
Is then my dear loved son no more?—Ah yes! he lives above;
No longer then, fond heart, deplore—
The loss of filial love.
| The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 | |