 | The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 |  |
Scene 1st
Socrates
How beauteous springs the morn! yon golden beams,
That burst all glorious from the rising sun,
To glad approaching day, and cheer mankind
In their repeated toils, but late were hid
Beneath night's dreary mantle, and black darkness
Shaded a sleepy world: and yet that sun
Rose yesterday as bright, and will tomorrow.
—Say, is not this to die and rise again
Each even and morn? for death itself's no more
Than the dark instant that removes the soul
From this world to a better, when she rises
More free, more active, to etherial life;
In this superiour to yon blazing orb,
That, when she once hath risen, she sets no more.
That burst all glorious from the rising sun,
To glad approaching day, and cheer mankind
In their repeated toils, but late were hid
Beneath night's dreary mantle, and black darkness
Shaded a sleepy world: and yet that sun
Rose yesterday as bright, and will tomorrow.
—Say, is not this to die and rise again
Each even and morn? for death itself's no more
Than the dark instant that removes the soul
From this world to a better, when she rises
More free, more active, to etherial life;
In this superiour to yon blazing orb,
That, when she once hath risen, she sets no more.
This to a listless, an ungrateful world
I long have taught aloud, and pointed forth
The way to solid wisdom. By that pow'r
Inspir'd, who long with unremitted goodness
Hath on my anxious, my enquiring mind
Beam'd heavenly knowledge,—such as ancient sages
In vain essay'd to learn,—have I to man
Laid ope the hidden stores of true philosophy,
And shew'd her plain and naked to the eye.
For this what worthy recompence is mine?
E'en taunt and despite: Man that will not know.
—His real good, insulting, thus repays
For him my gen'rous cares; nay more; grown tir'd
With being freely told ungrateful truths,
They scheme against me; 'gainst a weak old man,
Emaciated with toil, with pain, with indigence,
They level all th'artillery of their malice.
They work my ruin, merely 'cause I love them,
And labour for their welfare in Hereafter.
But be it so; be this their kind return;
Persist, my soul, in thy benevolence;
Be firm in doing good—Beneath thy thought
Are life's vain scenes, and death to thee but opens
A brighter prospect, rich with endless life,
With rich happiness! Not to be told,
Not to be thought, while thou art confin'd below!
I long have taught aloud, and pointed forth
The way to solid wisdom. By that pow'r
Inspir'd, who long with unremitted goodness
Hath on my anxious, my enquiring mind
Beam'd heavenly knowledge,—such as ancient sages
In vain essay'd to learn,—have I to man
Laid ope the hidden stores of true philosophy,
And shew'd her plain and naked to the eye.
For this what worthy recompence is mine?
E'en taunt and despite: Man that will not know.
—His real good, insulting, thus repays
For him my gen'rous cares; nay more; grown tir'd
With being freely told ungrateful truths,
They scheme against me; 'gainst a weak old man,
Emaciated with toil, with pain, with indigence,
They level all th'artillery of their malice.
They work my ruin, merely 'cause I love them,
And labour for their welfare in Hereafter.
But be it so; be this their kind return;
Persist, my soul, in thy benevolence;
Be firm in doing good—Beneath thy thought
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A brighter prospect, rich with endless life,
With rich happiness! Not to be told,
Not to be thought, while thou art confin'd below!
| The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 | |