GIFT OF 
 
 SEELEY W. MUDD 
 
 and 
 
 GEORGE 1. COCHRAN MEYER ELSASSER 
 
 DR. JOHN R. HAYNES WILLIAM L. HONNOLD 
 
 JAMES R. MARTIN MRS. JOSEPH F. SARTORI 
 
 to the 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 SOUTHERN BRANCH
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON 
 
 6 4 3 8 4
 
 GI,ASGOW: 
 
 PRINTED BY BELL AND BAIN, 
 
 41 MITCHELL STREET.
 
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 P O E MS 
 
 BY 
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON 
 
 WITH A MEMOIR 
 
 BY 
 
 FREDERICK MARTIN 
 
 Author of the "Life of John Clare" 
 
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 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Memoir, 9 
 
 A Hymn for Christmas Day, 47 
 
 Sly Dick, 49 
 
 Apostate Will, 50 
 
 Narva and Mored, 52 
 
 Heccar and Gaira. An African Eclogue, . . - 56 
 
 Colin Instructed, 59 
 
 The Advice. Addressed to Miss M R , of 
 
 Bristol, ......... 60 
 
 Song. Fanny of the Hill. 1770, 62 
 
 The Death of Nicou, 63 
 
 February. An Elegy, 67 
 
 The Copernican System, 70 
 
 The Consuliad. A Mock Heroic Poem, ... 72 
 
 Acrostic on Miss Clarke, 80 
 
 To A Friend, 80 
 
 To Miss Hoyland, 81 
 
 To THE Beauteous Miss Hoyland, .... 82 
 
 Ode to Miss Hoyland, 83 
 
 Acrostic on Miss Hoyland, 84 
 
 To Miss Hoyland 85
 
 VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 To Miss Hoyland, 
 
 To Miss Hoyland, 
 
 To Miss Hoyland, 
 
 To Miss Hoyland. With a Present, 
 
 To Miss Hoyland, 
 
 A Song. Addressed to Miss C am, of Bristol, 
 
 Fragment, 
 
 The Woman of Spirit. A Burletta. 1770, 
 
 To Miss Clarke, .... 
 
 A Burlesque Cantata, 
 
 The Romance of the Knight, . 
 
 An Excelente Balade of Charitie: As wroten bi 
 
 the gode Prieste Thomas Rowleie, 1464, . 
 
 Fragment, 
 
 Resignation, .... 
 
 HoR. Lib. I. Od. 5, 
 
 Hor. Lib. I. Od. 19, . . . 
 
 A Bacchanalian, 
 
 The Invitation, .... 
 
 The Minstrel's Song. Modernized, 
 
 Elegy, 
 
 Clifton, 
 
 An Elegy, on the much-lamented Death of Wm. Beck 
 
 ford, Esq., late Lord Mayor of and Representative in 
 
 Parliament for the City of London, 
 To Mr. Holland, 
 
 Elegy, 
 
 On Mr. Alcock, of Bristol, an Excellent Miniature 
 
 Painter, ......... 
 
 155
 
 CONTENTS. Vll 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To Miss Bush, of Bristol, 156 
 
 Elegy, 158 
 
 Elegy on the Death of Mr. Phillips, .... 160 
 
 The Virgin's Choice, 165 
 
 Faith, 166 
 
 On the last Epiphany, or Christ coming to 
 
 Judgment, 167 
 
 The last Verses written by Chatterton, , ,168
 
 ®>KOMAS t^JKATTEKTON. 
 
 IhERE are few more beautiful churches in 
 this country than St. Mary RedcUfife, Bristol. 
 "It is," says Camden, "on all accounts the 
 first parish church in England." The ancient edifice, 
 erected more than five centuries ago, stands on 
 the brow of a hill, overlooking the fair valley of 
 the Avon, and the stately old city which our Saxon 
 forefathers called Brightstow — that is, a place of 
 fame, or beauty. Connected with St. Mary Redclifife, 
 through the link of five or six generations, was the 
 family of Chatterton. The Chattertons were sextons 
 of the ancient church, filling honourably a low but 
 not undignified position. "A stool and cushion for 
 the sexton," says Shakespeare. The last of the family 
 who held the office was John Chatterton, appointed 
 in March, 1725, and relinquishing the charge only at 
 his death, in 1748. His descendants, taking higher 
 aim, refused the "stool and cushion," but still kept 
 in proximity to the church. Thomas Chatterton,
 
 X THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 nephew of John, embraced the scholastic profession, 
 and after having been usher at an academy, became 
 " singing man " at Bristol Cathedral, and finally master 
 of the free school in Pyle Street. The world showed 
 its sharp edges to the poor schoolmaster, and he, in 
 return, had not much love for a hard-hearted world. 
 He tried to forget his small stipend and ill-furnished 
 larder in studying the works of Cornelius Agrippa, 
 brooding over "De occulta philosophia," and spending 
 years in reflections on "De incertitudine et vanitate 
 scientiarum et artium." But all his reflections brought 
 no bread into his cupboard, and he remained what he 
 was before — a poor, hungry, dissatisfied schoolmaster. 
 As such he died, still young, in August, 1752, leaving 
 his pregnant wife to fight her life's battle in utter sorrow 
 and distress. 
 
 On the 20th of November, 1752, three months after 
 the death of the poor schoolmaster, the widow gave 
 birth to a son, who was baptized at St. Mary Redclifte 
 on the first of January following, and called Thomas, 
 after his father. It was no easy matter for the indi- 
 gent widow to bring up this son, as well as an elder 
 daughter ; however, she managed it by dint of hard 
 work and the most frugal fare. The family lived in a 
 small house situated in a back court adjoining St. 
 Mary's churchyard; and it was here little Thomas 
 spent the first six or seven years of his life. As soon 
 as he was able to totter about, he made his way into
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON. XI 
 
 the old church, the doors of which, at that time, used 
 to be open all day. The sights he beheld here filled 
 his young mind with wonder and astonishment. 
 There stood conspicuously the tomb and efiigy of 
 William Canynge, the restorer of the noble edifice, 
 lying in full length, in his priestly robes, his hands 
 folded as in prayer. AVhile other children were sitting 
 on the green grass, playing with daisies and buttercups, 
 little Thomas Chatterton groped his way among the 
 stony images of the old church. These were first 
 impressions, and they were more deep and lasting 
 even than first impressions usually are. When five 
 years old, his mother sent him to school — the same 
 school in Pyle Street of which his father had been 
 previously the master, and which was now superin- 
 tended over by a Mr. Love. The latter was not able 
 to teach his new pupil anything, not even the letters 
 of the alphabet. Try as he might, little Thomas 
 showed himself as incapable to absorb knowledge as 
 a stone water, and was set down finally as a con- 
 firmed and incorrigible dunce. So it went on for a 
 year and a half, until accident threw an ancient black- 
 letter Bible into the hands of little Thomas. The 
 sight of the antiquated type, with many grotesque 
 illustrations, roused all the dormant faculties of the 
 boy. What the schoolmaster was not able to do in 
 eighteen months, he himself did in as many days; and 
 having taught himself to read, he not only went
 
 XU THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 through his old Bible, but devoured every other bock 
 he could lay hold of. Often he would read from the 
 moment he awoke, which was generally very early in 
 the morning, until he went to bed, giving himself 
 scarcely time to take a little food, and shunning 
 entirely the company of other boys of his age. Not 
 unfrequently he was found sitting, with some old book 
 in his hand, near the tomb of Canynge, or in some 
 recess of the aisles and towers of St. Mary Redclifife. 
 
 The struggles of the poor widow for the daily bread 
 went on increasing as her two children came to grow 
 up, until she scarcely knew how to "make both ends 
 meet." In this emergency she bethought herself of a 
 charitable institution for the maintenance and educa- 
 tion of boys, in which to place her only son. She 
 was successful in her efforts to get him into this 
 establishment, and in August, 1760, when he had not 
 quite attained his eighth year, Thomas Chatterton was 
 admitted into Colston's Charity School, an institution 
 similar to Christ Hospital, London. The school, 
 founded by one Edward Colston, in 1708, provides 
 board and lodging, a coarse kind of dress, and some- 
 thing which is called education, for one hundred boys. 
 By the rules of the charity, which are strictly enforced, 
 the teaching, or what goes by the name, occupies the 
 whole day, while the boys must be in bed at eight 
 o'clock, and are allowed to visit their friends only for 
 a f^w hours on Saturdays and "Saints' days." Among
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON. XIU 
 
 these one hundred youthful souls, dressed in blue coat, 
 scarlet stockings, and tonsure caps, and whipped 
 through an endless course of reading, writing, and 
 arithmetic, little Thomas, his brain full of mediseval 
 romance, found himself now suddenly thrust. Tlie life 
 was dreary in the extreme; however, he had nothing 
 to say against it, his only complaint being that he 
 had not books enough to read. To get the much 
 desired books, either by way of loan or purchase, he 
 made every possible effort. Kind friends lent him a 
 few volumes, and his i)oor mother now and then gave 
 him a few pence to gratify his burning passion for the 
 acquisition of knowledge. Every minute that he could 
 spare from the dreary routine of charity, he devoted 
 to reading. He read everything that came in his way 
 — works on religion, on mathematics, heraldiy, logic, 
 poetry, and navigation; books of travel and adven- 
 ture; treatises on astronomy, physic, and algebra; and 
 essays on cookery, music, and the fine arts. Thus 
 nearly four years passed, and the young mind having 
 been stocked to repletion with undigested thought, it 
 found vent in writing. His first efforts were in verse, 
 and of a satirical kind. Stung to the quick by the 
 humdrum life of the charity school, he rebelled against 
 it in ridiculing those with whom he came into con- 
 tact. Thus arose " Sly Dick," a piece printed at tlie 
 beginning of most of the collections of Chatterton's 
 poems, written by him before the age of eleven; and
 
 Xlv ' THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 "Apostate Will," another satire of the same kind, 
 produced not long after. The intrinsic merit of these 
 verses is not very great; but they are unique in their 
 way, considering the author's age and the nature of 
 his education. His verses, too, were not all satirical, 
 and there were some of a far different stamp. One 
 of the best of these — which will be found first in our 
 selection— was "A Hymn for Christmas Day," written 
 Avhen he was little more than eleven, and the first of 
 the poems of Chatterton which seems worth preserving. 
 He had no sooner began putting his pen on paper 
 when he became all at once a prolific writer. Full of 
 ambition, even at this early age, he dropped his 
 poetical pieces into the letter-box of Felix Farley s 
 Bristol Journal, and had the gratification of seeing 
 them re-appear in all the regularity of printer's ink 
 and type. 
 
 At the age of twelve, Thomas Chatterton was con- 
 firmed by the bishop, on which occasion, according 
 to the testimony of his sister, "he made very sensible 
 and serious remarks on the awfulness of the cere- 
 mony." His habits about this time grew very curious 
 and reserved. Having received permission to leave 
 the school every Saturday from twelve to seven, he 
 came home punctually a few minutes after the clock 
 had struck the hour of noon, and forthwith locked 
 himself up in a litde garret belonging to his 
 mother. The poor widow's dwelling was situated, as
 
 THOMAS CIIATTERTON. XV 
 
 already mentioned, in a back court close to St. 
 Mary Redcliffe Church, and consisted of but two 
 rooms, with a little garret above. The latter place 
 was used as a receptacle for all those odds and ends 
 of property known as lumber; including in this case a 
 quantity of old parchment, brought from the adjoining 
 church under somewhat remarkable circumstances. 
 Over the north porch of St. Mary Redcliffe there had 
 existed for many centuries a kind of muniment room, 
 containing half-a-dozen heavy chests filled with 
 manuscripts, one of them being distinguished as "Mr. 
 Canynge's cofre." This particular box was said to 
 contain most important documents — a supposition 
 based upon the fact that it was secured by no less 
 than six keys, two of them entrusted to the incum- 
 bent, two to the mayor, and two to the churchwardens. 
 However, important or not, the six keys got lost in 
 course of time, and there arising some talk about "Mr. 
 Canynge's cofre" among the worthy burgesses of 
 Bristol, a vestry order was passed that the chest should 
 be forced open, in the presence of an attorney and 
 other duly authorized persons. In consequence, the 
 locks, not only of Mr. Canynge's box, but of its five 
 companions in the muniment room, were broken, and 
 as many of the contents as seemed of importance 
 carried off by the watchful attorney. The rest, a very 
 considerable quantity of old sheepskin, more or less 
 bepainted and written on, was left exposed in the
 
 XVI THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 ancient receptacles, a prey to whomsoever should 
 think it worth the trouble to become a parchment 
 thief. 
 
 There were many thieves, among them the husband 
 of the poor widow, father of Thomas Chatterton. 
 The good schoolmaster stole for charitable purposes, 
 with not the faintest idea that he was doing wrong. 
 He simply laid hold of the old parchments to cover 
 the books of his little pupils, and for other educa- 
 tional purposes; and he probably would have con- 
 sidered it a gross interference with his duties had 
 any one prevented him doing so. A large cupboard 
 in the school-room was kept filled with the ancient 
 documents during his lifetime; and after his death, 
 his widow, considering the cupboard contents private 
 property, carried them into her garret. It was here 
 little Thomas found them; and they were the 
 cause that he imprisoned himself, week after week, 
 in the narrow chamber. From the hour of noon, 
 on Saturday, till late at night, he did not leave his 
 little garret for more than five minutes at a time, 
 when he slipped down into his mother's room for 
 a cup of tea. What he did all the while not a soul 
 knew. His friends only saw him now and then, 
 begrimed all over with stains of black and yellow 
 on hands and face, and his mind so occupied with 
 thought as to be unable to reply to the most common 
 questions. Once or twice his sister forced her way
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON. XVU 
 
 into the little garret, but did not find herself much 
 enlightened by what she saw as to his real doings. 
 Having suiTiciently perplexed themselves by long dis- 
 cussions of the matter, his friends at last came to 
 the conclusion that it would be best to leave him 
 alone. Thus Thomas Chatterton was left alone in 
 his narrow study, among the old parchments from 
 " Mr. Canynge's cofre." 
 
 The result of the Saturday labours in the garret 
 soon became apparent. There was at Bristol a 
 pewterer of the name of Burgum, a vain and pom- 
 pous man, who, having made money in his trade, 
 fancied himself a great hero, sprung from a noble 
 line of ancestors. To him little Thomas went, 
 offering to get his pedigree, and proving his descent 
 from the ancient nobility of the realm; from "Simon 
 de Leyncte Lyze, alias Senliz, who married Matilda, 
 daughter of Waltheof, Earl of Northumberland, North- 
 ampton, and Huntingdon." The pewterer Hstened 
 attentively to the little boy in charity clothes who 
 gave him this assurance, and eagerly accepted the 
 offer to extract this wonderful pedigree from the 
 ancient parchments in the muniment room of St. 
 Mary Redcliffe. The great genealogical tree of 
 Burgum made its appearance immediately, and the 
 noble pewterer, in the fulness of his heart, presented 
 Thomas with the magnificent sum of five shillings. 
 It was a great encouragement for the silent boy to
 
 XVUl THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 prosecute his garret labours; for it seemed to point 
 out to him the road not only to wealth, but to fame. 
 From earliest infancy, fame had been the darling 
 wish of his heart. When very young, a manufacturer 
 of pottery, acquainted with his mother, promised him 
 a cup, asking what should be the device on it. 
 "Paint me," said little Thomas, "an angel, with 
 wings and a trumpet, to trumpet my name all over 
 the world." 
 
 Shortly after producing the great Burgum pedigree, 
 Chatterton left the charity school, to be apprenticed 
 to a lawyer of the name of Lambert. This event 
 took place on the first of July, 1767, he being now 
 nearly fifteen, having been about seven years at the 
 Colston Institution. The change from the school 
 to the lawyer's office was by no means a welcome 
 one to poor little Thomas. Much as his high- 
 soaring genius fretted under the nan'ow rules of the 
 charity, he found himself still more unhappy at the 
 new post to which he came to be chained. Mr. 
 John Lambert, his master, was a mean, resentful, 
 and almost cruel man. He had little business; but 
 exacted nevertheless the strictest service from his 
 new apprentice, wiio was not allowed to leave his 
 desk from eight o'clock in the morning till the same 
 hour at night. Exactly sixty minutes, neither more 
 nor less, were allowed him during the day to take 
 his food, and the two hours, from eight to ten in
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON. XIX 
 
 the eveuing were allotted for exercise; during the 
 rest of the time he had to sit on his three-legged 
 stool as if chained thereto. The new master, full 
 of vulgar pride, did not even treat him as an ap- 
 prentice, but as a menial, giving him his meals in 
 the kitchen, with the servants, and assignin:? one- 
 half of the footboy's bed for his couch. All these 
 indignities preyed terribly on the mind of Thomas 
 Chatterton. Conscious of his mental superiority, yet 
 condemned to obey a man for whom he felt utter 
 contempt, his spirit chafed and fretted, ready to 
 burst its bounds. However, he had one consolation 
 left, that of being able to prosecute his old labours, 
 leading, as he fancied, to the high temple of fame 
 raised by his imagination. 
 
 That Mr. Lambert had only two, or at the utmost 
 three hours' work for him, was the one source of satis- 
 faction to Thomas Chatterton. He scribbled all day 
 long ; but not in the service of his master, or of the 
 law. Before his mind's eye still stood the angel with 
 the trumpet, blowing his name all over the world. And 
 with this vision before him, he quietly bore all the 
 insults of his vulgar master, and all the contumely 
 of his low position. Already inclined to antiquarian 
 pursuits, by past studies and researches, he now 
 fled entirely from the present into the past. At the 
 office there was a copy of Camden's Britantiia, with 
 several other old books; and over these, together
 
 XX THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 with an edition of Speght's Chaucer^ Hollinshed's 
 Chronicles, the dictionaries of Kersey and Bailey, 
 and similar ancient works, he pored all day long, 
 through the many hours not required for his sparse 
 law-copyings. What was the result of these studies 
 became soon apparent. 
 
 When Chatterton had been rather more than a 
 year at the lawyer's office, in September, 1768, a 
 new bridge came to be opened at Bristol, super- 
 seding the decayed old structure which had spanned 
 the Avon for centuries. The usual ceremony took 
 place on the occasion, stirring up some conversation 
 among the inhabitants of the quiet old city; and 
 stirring it up still more when there appeared, im- 
 mediately after, a wonderful account in Felix Farley s 
 Bristol Journal, descriptive of the rites observed at 
 the opening of the old bridge, some hundred years 
 before. The account, signed " Dunhelmus Bris- 
 toliensis," wa's a pure invention, written by Chatter- 
 ton at his lawyer's desk; nevertheless, the antiquarians 
 and other learned men of the city held it to be 
 genuine, and strove hard to draw the fortunate 
 " Dunhelmus Bristoliensis," who had discovered the 
 wonderful manuscript, from his retiring-place. With 
 the assistance of the editor of Felix Farley's Bristol 
 Journal, the search for "Dunhelmus" proved suc- 
 cessful, and one fine morning little Thomas, sitting 
 on his high three-legged stool, found himself sur-
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON. XXI 
 
 rounded by a mob of well-dressed gentlemen, over- 
 whelming him with questions as to the origin of 
 the old document. They alternately threatened and 
 coaxed, and in the end got a good story in reward 
 for their trouble. Thomas told them, as he had told 
 his friend the pewterer, that he had found the ancient 
 manuscript, containing the account of the opening 
 of the old bridge, among his father's papers, pre- 
 viously deposited in the muniment room of Redcliffe 
 Church. The story was not only believed in by the 
 learned men of Bristol, but looked upon as a most 
 important matter; and little Thomas was encouraged 
 on all sides to look diligently for more interesting 
 documents among the papers in his possession. The 
 little lawyer's clerk, very melancholy on his high 
 three-legged stool, very much in want of work, and 
 very ambitious, desired nothing better. He kept 
 on producing ancient parchments with extraordinary 
 rapidity, though not more rapidly than wished for 
 by the eager antiquarians of his native town. 
 
 Foremost among these eager antiquarians was Mr. 
 William Barrett, a surgeon by profession, but engaged 
 for the moment in the compilation of a big book, 
 entitled The History and Antiquities of the Town of 
 Bristol. He had no sooner heard of the wonderful 
 discovery of old parchments when he hurried up to 
 Mr. Lambert's office to see and consult the litde 
 lawyer's clerk, ov/ner of such precious documents.
 
 XXU THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 Chatterton's vanity was greatly increased by this new 
 mark of respect on the part of one of the foremost 
 citizens of Bristol. Assuming an important air, he 
 told the anxious historian that he had indeed most 
 important papers in his possession, which would throw 
 an entirely new light on the ancient history of the 
 town. The learned surgeon was almost beside himself 
 for joy; he offered little Thomas a handful of money, 
 and eagerly besought him to furnish the interesting 
 manuscripts as soon as possible. With eight hours 
 leisure per diem, and nothing but a footboy to disturb 
 his nightly musings, Chatterton was not long in pro- 
 ducing the important papers. He handed Mr. Barrett, 
 first of all, a marvellous description of medieval 
 Bristol, entitled "Turgot's Account of Bristol, trans- 
 lated by T. Rowley out of Saxon into English ;" and 
 this was followed by a number of similar documents, 
 some of great length, and accompanied by plans and 
 drawings of the most extraordinary kind. Such archi- 
 tecture as here delineated had never been seen out of 
 China and Japan. There were the ancient churches of 
 the city, ornamented from top to bottom with strange 
 pilasters, cross-keys, lozenges, stars, and human 
 figures; there was a view of "Bristol Castle in 1138; 
 Rowlie Canonicus deleniator 1440," looking like an 
 enchanted palace in an Arabian tale. Mr, William 
 Barrett took it all with tremendous eagerness, and 
 published the whole in his History and Antiquities.
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON. XXIll 
 
 Previous to meeting with Mr. Barrett, and supplying 
 him with ancient manuscripts, Chatterton had made 
 the acquaintance of Mr. George Catcott, partner of 
 Eurgum, the pewterer. Mr. Catcott was a gentleman 
 of some education, and, hke Mr. Barrett, fond of 
 antiquarian studies; and having once come to know 
 the wonderful little lawyer's clerk, he showed great 
 anxiety to possess some of the treasures from the 
 muniment room of St. IVIary Redcliffe. Chatterton 
 was quite willing to give — his store was all but inex- 
 haustible. In a very short time he furnished the "Bris- 
 towe Tragedy," "Rowley's Epitaph upon Canynge's 
 Ancestor," and a number of smaller pieces, with the 
 receipt of all of which Mr. Catcott was so delighted 
 that he made repeated presents to the bringer. He 
 did more; he introduced Chatterton to his brother, 
 the Rev. Alexander Catcott, who likewise treated the 
 young lawyer's clerk with the greatest attention, and 
 even engaged with him in religious controversy. It 
 was the crowning part of Chatterton's career. Petted 
 on all sides, furnished with money by his admirers, and, 
 above all, praised for writings of which he was held to 
 be only the depositor, he fancied himself on the high 
 road to fame and fortune. His imagination painted to 
 him in glowing colours the proud position he Avould 
 fill when throwing off his mask, and coming before the 
 world as a poet in his own name. To prepare himself 
 for this future, he now began studying with immense
 
 Xxiv THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 zeal, devoting every spare hour and every shilling in 
 his possession to books— books of all kinds and on 
 all subjects imaginable, including even medical and 
 surgical treatises. 
 
 With increased knowledge came increased ambition. 
 The admiration of his Bristol friends was insufficient 
 after awhile for Chatterton, and he resolved to take 
 flight into higher regions. Accordingly, in the winter 
 of 1768, having been a lawyer's clerk for eighteen 
 months, and a silent, unknown poet for twice the time, 
 he addressed a letter to Mr. Dodsley, one of the lead- 
 ing publishers of the metropolis, offering some of his 
 "ancient" manuscripts. The letter ran as follows: — 
 
 "Bristol, December, 21, 1768. 
 
 " Sir,— I take this method to acquaint you that I can procure 
 
 copies of several ancient poems ; and an interlude, perhaps the 
 
 oldest dramatic piece extant, wrote by one Rowley, a priest in 
 
 Bristol, who lived in the reigns of Henry the Vlth and lidward 
 
 the IVth. If these pieces will be of service to you, they are at 
 
 your command, and copies shall be sent to you by your most 
 
 obedient servant, 
 
 "D. B. 
 
 "Please to direct for D. B., to be left with Mr. Thomas 
 Chatterton, Redcliffe HiU, Bristol. 
 
 " For Mr. J. Dodsley, Bookseller, Pall Mall, London." 
 
 To this letter there was no reply. Whether Mr. 
 Dodsley doubted the genuineness of the " oldest 
 dramatic piece extant," or did not think it worth 
 while to enter into correspondence with an anony-
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON. XXV 
 
 mous writer, is not known; but, at any rate, he kept 
 silent. However, Tliomas Chatterton was not dis- 
 couraged by this faihire, but, two months after, wrote 
 a second letter to Mr. Dodsley. It ran : — 
 
 "Bristol, February 15, 1769. 
 
 "Sir, — Having intelligence that the tragedy of yElla was in 
 being, after a long and laliorious search, I was so happy as to 
 attain a sight of it. Struck with the beauties of it, I endeavoured 
 to obtain a copy of it to send to you ; but the present possessor 
 absolutely denies to give me one unless I give him a guinea for a 
 consideration. As I am unable to procure such a sum, I made 
 search for another copy, but unsuccessfully. Unwilling such a 
 beauteous piece should be lost, I have made bold to apply to 
 you : several gentlemen of learning, who have seen it, join with 
 me in praising it. I am far from having any mercenary views 
 for myself in this affair, and, was I able, would jirint it at my 
 own risque. It is a perfect tragedy; the plot clear, the language 
 spirited, and the songs (interspersed in it) are flowing, poetical, 
 and elegantly simple ; the similes judiciously applied, and, though 
 wrote in the reign of Henry the Vlth, not inferior to many of 
 tlie pi-esent age. If I can procure a copy, with or without the 
 gratification, it shall be immediately sent to you. The motive 
 that actuates me to do this is, to convince the world that the 
 monks (of whom some have so despicable an .opinion) were not 
 such blockheads as generally thought, and that good poetry 
 might be wrote in the dark days of superstition, as well as in 
 these more enlightened ages. An immediate answer will oblige. 
 I shall not receive your favour as for myself, but as your agent. —   
 I am. Sir, your most obedient servant, 
 
 "Thomas Chatterton. 
 
 " P. S. — My reason for concealing my name was, lest my 
 master (who is now out of town) should see my letters, and 
 think I neglected his business. Direct for me on Redcliffe 
 Hill."
 
 XXVI THOiMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 It is doubtful whether Mr. Dodsley, of Pall Mall, 
 paid any more attention to this second than to the 
 first letter. So much is certain, he did not send the 
 desired guinea. Publishers in general, and London 
 publishers in particular, are not hasty in sending 
 guineas to unknown correspondents, even for tragedies 
 possessing the inestimable advantage of having " the 
 plot clear." And then, too, that fatal statement of 
 the writer, of his "master" being "now out of town" ! 
 It was quite enough to secure the purse-strings and 
 the guineas of Mr. J. Dodsley, Bookseller, Pall Mall. 
 
 Chatterton did not get dispirited even by this 
 second failure to connect himself with the London 
 world of literature. Little more than a month after 
 writing to the Pall Mall publisher, he indited another 
 letter to no less a personage than Horace Walpole. 
 The note, brief and to the point, was much more 
 clever than that to Mr. Dodsley. Chatterton wrote: — 
 
 "Sir, — Being versed a little in antiquities, I have met with 
 several curicu; manuscripts, among which the following may be 
 of service to you, in any future edition of your truly entei'taining 
 Anecdotes of Painting. In correcting the mistakes (if any) in 
 the notes, you will greatly oblige, 
 
 " Your most humble servant, 
 
 "Thomas Chatterton. 
 
 "Bristol, March 25, Corn Street." 
 
 The note was accompanied by a manuscript, 
 headed— "The Ryse of Peyncteyne in Englande,
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON. XXVU 
 
 wroten by T. Rowlie, 1469, for Mastre Canynge," and 
 beginning, — 
 
 "Peynctynge ynn England, haveth of oiild t)mie bin >ai use; 
 for saieth the Roman wryters, the Brytonnes dyd depycte 
 themselves, yn soiindiie wyse, of the founnes of the sonne 
 and moone wythe the hearbe woade: albeytte I double theie 
 were no skylled carvellers. The Romans be accounted of all 
 menne of cunnynge wytte yn peyncteynge and carvellynge; 
 aunter theie mote inhylde theyre rare devyces ynto the mynds 
 of the Brytonnes ; albeytte att the commeynge of Hengeyst, nete 
 appeares to wytteness yt, the Kystes are rudelie ycorven, and for 
 the moste parte houge hepes of stones. Hengeste dyd brynge 
 ynto this reaulme herehaughtrie, whyche dydde peyncteynge." 
 
 In the notes at the bottom of this curious manu- 
 script, the pretended author, Rowley, or Rowlie, was 
 described as — 
 
 "A secular priest of Saint John's, in this city; his merit as a 
 biographer, historiographer, is great ; as a poet still greater : 
 some of his pieces would do honour to Pope ; and the person 
 under whose patronage they may appear to the world, will lay 
 the Englishman, the antiquary, and the poet, under an eternal 
 obligation." 
 
 Horace Walpole, shrewd man of the world though 
 
 he was, went into the trap prepared for him by the 
 
 litde lawyer's clerk. He replied immediately to his 
 
 correspondent, in a note brimful of courtesy and 
 
 politeness : — 
 
 " Arlixgtox Street, March 28, 1769. 
 "Sir, — I cannot but think myself singularly obliged, by a 
 gentleman with whom I have not the pleasure of being ac- 
 quainted, when I read your very curious and kind letter, which 
 1 have this minute received. I give you a thousand thanks for
 
 XXVIU THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 it, and for the very obliging offer you make me of communi- 
 cating your manuscript to me. What you have already sent me 
 is valuable, and full of information ; but, instead of correcting 
 you, sir, you are far more able to correct me. I have not the 
 happiness of understanding the Saxon language, and without 
 your learned notes, should not have been able to comprehend 
 Rowley's text. 
 
 "As a second edition of my Anecdotes was published last year, 
 I must not flatter myself that a third will be wanted soon ; but 
 I shall be happy to lay up any notices you will be so good as to 
 extract for me, and send me at your leisure; for as it is uncertain 
 when I may use them, I would by no means borrow and detain 
 your MSS. 
 
 " Give me leave to ask you where Rowley's poems are to be 
 found. I should not be sorry to print them, or at least a speci- 
 men of them, if they have never been printed. 
 
 "The Abbot John's verses, that you have given me, are 
 wonderful for their harmony and spirit ; though there are some 
 words I do not understand. You do not point out exactly the 
 time when he lived, which I wish to know ; as I suppose it was 
 long before John al Ectry's discovery of oil painting: if so, it 
 confirms what I have guessed, and have hinted in my Anecdotes, 
 that oil painting was known here much earlier than that dis- 
 covery or revival. 
 
 "I will not trouble you with more questions now, sir; but 
 flatter myself, from the urbanity and politeness you have already 
 shown me, that you will give me leave to consult you. I hope, 
 too, you will forgive the simplicity of my direction, as you have 
 favoured me with none other. 
 
 " I am, Sir, your most obliged 
 
 and obedient humble servant, 
 
 " Horace Walpole. 
 "J^.S.—Be so good as to direct to Mr. Walpole, Arlington Street.''' 
 
 To this most encouraging letter Chatterton replied 
 immediately; but in a manner not conspicuous for
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON. XXIX 
 
 worldly wisdom. The poor little lawyer's clerk was 
 unable to keep his poetic mask to his face for any 
 length of time, but as in the letter to Mr. Dodsley he 
 revealed the existence of a "master out of town," 
 so in the second or third note to Horace Walpole 
 he let out the unhappy fact that he was very poor, 
 and moving in very humble station — sleeping with 
 the foot-boy of a country solicitor, and dining with 
 the kitchenmaid. I'he great Horace shuddered on 
 learning these particulars, or facts hinting at them. 
 His suspicions of "Rowley's text," and "Abbot John's 
 verses, wonderful for their harmony and spirit," were 
 roused all at once, and not having " the happiness 
 of understanding the Saxon language," he laid the 
 curious documents before two happier friends, the 
 poets Gray and Mason. They, without hesitation, 
 ])ronounced the MSS. to be forgeries, recommending 
 the immediate return of the papers to the sender. 
 This Avas done; but in what manner is not known, 
 the actual correspondence having never been pro- 
 duced. The story of the further development of 
 the affair rests on the statement of Horace Walpole, 
 who, in his subsequent defence of his treatment of 
 Chatterton, says, — 
 
 " Being satisfied with my intelligjnce about Chatterton, I 
 wrote him a letter with as much kindness and tenderness as 
 if I had been his guardian ; for, though I had no doubt of his 
 impositions, such a spirit of poetry breathed in his coinage
 
 XXX THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 as interested me for him : nor was it a grave crime in a yoiing 
 bard to have forged false notes of hand that were to pass cur- 
 rent only in the parish of Parnassus. I undeceived him about 
 my being a person of any interest, and urged to him that in 
 duty and gratitude to his mother, who had straitened herself 
 to breed him up to a profession, he ought to labour in it, that 
 in her old age he might absolve his filial debt ; and I told him 
 that when he should have made a fortune, he might unbend 
 himself with the studies consonant to his inclinations." 
 
 In another part of his account of Chatterton, 
 Horace Walpole speaks in a manner somewhat at 
 variance with the above. He says: — 
 
 " I should have been blamable to his mother, and society, if I 
 had seduced an apprentice from his master, to marry him to the 
 nine muses; and I should have encouraged a propensity to 
 forgery, which is not the talent most wanting culture in the 
 present age. All of the house of forgery are relations; and 
 though it is just to Chatterton's memory to say, that his poverty 
 never made him claim kindred with the richest, or more enrich- 
 ing branches, yet his ingenuity in counterfeiting styles, and I 
 believe, hands, might easily have led him to those more facile 
 imitations of prose, promissory notes." 
 
 These are hard words, considering that Horace 
 Walpole himself was the author of the celebrated 
 Castle of Otranto, which in the preface is described 
 as having been discovered " in the library of an ancient 
 Catholic family in the North of England, and printed 
 at Naples in black letter in the year 1529." Conse- 
 quently, if Chatterton was to be called a " forger" for 
 inventing a poetic romance, Horace Walpole had to
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON. XXXI 
 
 accept the like title for himself. As to the last sen- 
 tence in the above quotation, and which places writers 
 of fiction on the same level with the vilest criminals, 
 it must ever remain a disgrace to the memory of 
 Walpole. Were it not for these base insinuations and 
 accusations, his conduct might be excused on many- 
 points; particularly as regards Chatterton's scheme, 
 certainly indefensible, of supplying him with false 
 statements for a book not meant to be fictitious — the 
 historical anecdotes of painters. 
 
 The reception which his offers of assistance met 
 with on the part of Horace Walpole was naturally 
 very irritating to Chatterton ; but he felt it less for the 
 moment because of other outlets for his literary aims. 
 He had begun to correspond with the editor of the 
 Toion and Country Magazine^ a periodical published 
 in London, during the winter of 1769, and being 
 encouraged to forward contributions, he sent in 
 succession a large number of poems and prose essays, 
 all of which, or nearly all, came to be published. Not 
 long after, he entered into communication with several 
 other metropolitan papers, the Political Register, the 
 Freeholder's Magazine, the London Museum, and the 
 Middlesex Journal, the editors of all which publica- 
 tions were profuse in thanks for the contributions 
 received, though not profuse in their payments. 
 However, it was a high gratification to the author 
 merely to see his articles in print, with "Dunhelmus
 
 XXXIl THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 Bristoliensis," or "Asaphides," at the bottom; and for 
 the sake of it he kept writing with the greatest zeal, 
 sacrificing even his hours of rest. Many a night, when 
 all the inmates of his master's house were fast asleep, 
 he rose from his humble couch, and sitting down 
 before a flickering little candle, kept scribbling prose 
 and poetry till the break of day. Some of the noblest 
 productions of Chatterton's pen rose into existence 
 during these silent hours of the night. 
 
 The London periodicals to which the young lawyer's 
 clerk contributed represented nearly all the radical 
 side in politics, while a few professed scepticism in 
 matters of religion. Already much inclined, through 
 previous want of moral training, to infidel views, 
 Chatterton now was more and more driven in the 
 same direction. Possessed of little real knowledge, 
 yet with a mighty spirit soaring to the skies, he kept 
 groping for truth, and not being able to discern it at 
 once, sent forth a wild shriek of despair : — • 
 
 "An infant crying in the night, 
 An infant crying for the light, 
 And witli no language but a cry." 
 
 Unhappily, the light which the poor youth was 
 seeking for and crying for never did come. A long 
 time after, when all doubts and fears had ceased, 
 there was found in his pocket a small piece of paper, 
 much soiled and crumpled, with the following notes, 
 entitled —
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON. XXXIU 
 
 "The Articles of the Belief of me^ Thomas 
 
 Chatterton. 
 
 "That God being incomprehensible, it is not required of us to 
 know the mysteries of the Trini'iy. 
 
 " That it matters not whether a man is a Pagan, Turk, Jew, or 
 Christian, if he acts according to the religion he professes. 
 
 " That if a man leads a good moral life, he is a Christian. 
 
 " That the stage is the best school of morality; — and 
 
 " That the Church of Rome (some tricks of priestcraft excepted) 
 is certainly the true Church. 
 
 "Thomas Chatterton." 
 
 That these "Articles of belief" were anything bu.t 
 results of calm faith, but rather wild bursts of scepti- 
 cism, became painfully visible before long. The dark 
 phantoms of despair kept hovering over the sotil of 
 the poet, until shrouding the last ray of light from the 
 "incomprehensible" God he so vainly sought. 
 
 Chatterton continued to send poetry and prose 
 articles to London during the whole summer and 
 autumn of 1769, and the following winter. All of 
 them met with favourable reception; btit the polite 
 thanks of the editors were all, or nearly all, he got in 
 return. This was well, as long as the first glow of 
 satisfied pride lasted— some six months, or perhaps 
 ten. After this time Chatterton began to be dissatis- 
 fied with his patrons, urging, with good reason, that if 
 his contributions were worth printing, they were also 
 worth paying. The logic being unanswerable, the able 
 editors circumnavigated it with a new shower of coin-
 
 XXXIV THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 pliments and fine phrases, coupled with a promise of 
 future substantial reward. Thereupon the little 
 lawyer's clerk, most unselfish of mortals, continued to 
 write as before, and, to show his abilities, entered 
 upon the composition of a long poem, entitled "Kew 
 Gardens," being a satire on the Princess Dowager of 
 Wales, Lord Bute, and their friends in London and 
 Bristol. The poem, despatched to the printer of a 
 "patriotic newspaper" in the metropolis, was not 
 immediately published, as expected, and this, together 
 with other sources of vexation, particularly the unkind 
 treatment of his master, made Chatterton feel very 
 unhappy. His religious scepticism, too, engendered 
 a feverish state of the mind, which ended in a project 
 of self-destruction. Serious as it was for a moment, 
 it was yet frustrated by the intervention of a kind 
 friend. 
 
 On the 14th April, 1770, the day before Easter, Mr. 
 Lambert, in the evening, found on his desk a letter 
 from his apprentice, entitled "The last Will and 
 Testament of Thomas Chatterton," stating the fixed 
 intention of the writer to commit suicide on the 
 following day, Easter Sunday. Mr. Lambert, much 
 frightened by the threat, despatched the letter forth- 
 with to Mr. Barrett, who summoned his young friend 
 to his closet. The good surgeon talked to Chatterton 
 long and earnestly, reproving him for keeping bad 
 company; and, while impressing upon his mind the
 
 THOMAS CHATTERION. XXXV 
 
 fearful results of his religious scepticism, urging him 
 not only to give up all thoughts of committing the 
 great crime of self-murder, but to make an effort to 
 soar into the loftier region of faith. Chatterton was 
 greatly touched, and, with tears in his eyes, promised 
 obedience. The next day he sent his adviser the 
 following letter : — 
 
 " Sir, — In regard to my motives for the supposed rashness, I 
 shall observe that I keep no worse company than myself; I never 
 drink to excess, and have, without vanity, too much sense to be 
 attached to the mercenary retailers of iniquity. No ; it is my 
 PRIDE, my damn'd, native, unconquerable pride, that plunges 
 me into distraction. You must know that nineteen-twentieths of 
 my composition is pride. I must either live a slave— a servant, 
 liave no will of my own, which I may freely declare as such, — or 
 die. Perplexing alternative! that it distracts me to think of it; 
 I will endeavour to learn humility, but it cannot be here. What 
 it will cost me in the trial. Heaven knows! I am, your much 
 obliged, unhappy, humble servant, 
 
 "T. C." 
 
 The letter proves a thorough self-knowledge on the 
 part of the writer. There is no doubt that it was his 
 "unconquerable pride" which kept dragging him on 
 into darkness and despair. 
 
 Notwithstanding the signs of remorse shown by his 
 
 apprentice, Mr. Lambert now had become thoroughly 
 
 alarmed, and made great efforts to get him out of his 
 
 house. Chatterton was willing enougli to go, and the 
 
 short negociation ended in his leaving the lawyer's 
 
 desk the week after Easter. He had not learned 
 
 c
 
 XXXVl THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 much law during the two years and nine months that 
 he had sat on it, for he was unable to draw up a paper 
 rescinding his articles of indenture, and Mr. Lambert 
 himself had to undertake the task. However, he did 
 not for a moment intend to prosecute legal studies, 
 but bent all his hopes of success upon literature. 
 There were glorious promises from London booksellers 
 as to possible future reward for his services; and to 
 London, accordingly, Thomas Chatterton resolved to 
 go. Having borrowed a few pounds from his friends, 
 to defray the expenses of the journey, he bade adieu 
 to his native city, which he had never before left, on 
 the 24th of April, 1770. Though fondly attached 
 to his mother and sister, and .shedding abundant tears 
 on bidding them farewell, his spirits rose when St. 
 Michael's hill and the tower of the cathedral vanished 
 behind, and he himself carried on towards the golden 
 land of his dreams, the presumed realm of genius and 
 wealth — the British metropolis. 
 
 Chatterton's means being slender, he had taken his 
 seat in "the basket," a narrow cage tied to the back 
 of the "flying machine," happily unknown to the 
 present generation of travellers. Finding the coop 
 too much an instrument of torture, he removed to 
 the top, and finally, on payment of an additional 
 seven shillings, to an inside place. It had begun to 
 rain hard, and then to snow, and when passing Marl- 
 borough Downs the snow was one foot deep. After
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON. XXXVU 
 
 passing a miserable night and another miserable day 
 in the "flying machine," he at last arrived in London 
 about five o'clock, on the evening of the 25th of 
 April. Though so late, his impatience did not let 
 him rest for one moment, and he called at once upon 
 his great patrons, the booksellers and editors — Mr. 
 Hamilton, proprietor of the Toivii and Country 
 Magazine; Mr. Dodsley, the publisher of Pall Mall; 
 Mr. Fell, editor of the Freeholder periodical; and 
 Mr. Edmunds, a so-called "patriotic printer," to 
 whom Chatterton had addressed his poem of "-Kevv 
 Gardens." They all received the young author 
 from the country in the most friendly manner — the 
 way in which young authors are always received. 
 Writing to his mother next morning, Chatterton gave 
 way to his exuberance of joy. " Here I am safe, and 
 in high spirits," he exclaimed. "Called upon Mr. 
 Edmunds, Mr. Fell, Mr. Hamilton, and Mr. Dodsley. 
 Great encouragement from them ; all approved of my 
 design; shall soon be setded." Alas, poor young author! 
 Chatterton took lodgings at the house of a Mr. 
 Walmsley, a plasterer in Shoreditch, where lived a 
 seventh cousin of his, a Mrs. Ballance. From hence 
 he wrote another letter to his mother, giving a most 
 sanguine account of his doings, his hopes, and pros- 
 pects. The faith in publishers and editors still was 
 boundless, and he even believed in Mr. Wilkes — the 
 notorious "Liberty- Wilkes." The letter ran: — 
 
 84478
 
 XXXVni THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 Shoreditch, London, May 6, 1770. 
 " Dear Mother, — I am surprised that no letter has been 
 sent in answer to my last. I am settled, and in such a settle- 
 ment as I would desire. I get four guineas a month by one 
 Magazine: shall engage to write a History of England, and 
 other pieces, which will more than double that sum. Occasional 
 essays for the daily papers would more than support me. What 
 a glorious prospect! Mr. Wilkes knew me by my writings since 
 I first corresponded with the booksellers here. I shall visit him 
 next week, and by his interest will insure Mrs. Ballance the 
 Trinity-House. He affirmed that what Mr. Fell had of mine 
 could not be the writings of a youth; and expressed a desire 
 to know the author. By the means of another bookseller I 
 shall be introduced to Townshend and Sawbridge. I am quite 
 familiar at the Chapter Coffee-house, and know all the geniuses 
 there. A character is now unnecessary; an author carries his 
 character in his pen. My sister will improve herself in drawing. 
 My grandmother is, I hope, well. Bristol's mercenary walls 
 ■were never destined to hold me; there I was out of my 
 element; now I am in it — London! Good God! how superior 
 is London to that despicable place, Bristol! Here is none of 
 your little meannes-es, none of your mercenary securities, which 
 disgrace that miserable hamlet. — Dress, which is in Bristol an 
 eternal fund of scandal, is here only introduced as a subject of 
 taste: if a man dresses well, he has taste; if careless, he has his 
 own reasons for so doing, and is prudent. Need I remind you 
 of the contrast? The poverty of authors is a common obser- 
 vation, but not always a true one. No author can be poor who 
 understands the arts of booksellers. Without this necessary 
 knowledge, the greatest genius may starve; and with it, the 
 greatest dunce live in splendour. This knowledge I have pretty 
 well dipped into. — I remain, yours, &c., 
 
 " T. ClIATTERTON." 
 
 In the midst of all these golden visions, the dreariest 
 state of poverty and misery was gradually creeping
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON. XXXI X 
 
 in upon the young poet. His entire ignorance of 
 the chances of his own career showed itself by the 
 boasting language in which he spoke of the subject, 
 asserting that "no author can be poor who under- 
 stands the arts of booksellers. Without this neces- 
 sary knowledge, the greatest genius may starve ; and 
 with it, the greatest dunce live in splendour." Thomas 
 Chatterton soon proved that he was a genius, and not 
 
 a dunce. 
 
 There are no other materials for the history of the 
 short and tragic sojourn of the poet in London than 
 his own letters. But they are striking enough, and 
 furnish a wonderful insight into Chatterton's character. 
 Eight days after writing the preceding epistle. Chatter- 
 ton penned the following : — 
 
 "King's Bench, for the present, May 14, 1770. 
 " Don't be surprised at the name of the place. I am not here 
 as a prisoner. Matters go on swimmingly: Mr. Fell having 
 offended certain persons, they have set his creditors upon him, 
 and he is safe in the King's Bench. I have been bettered by 
 this accident ; his successors in the Freeholder'' s Magazine know- 
 ing nothing of the matter, will be glad to engage me on my own 
 terms. Mr. Edmunds has been tried before the House of Lords, 
 sentenced to pay a fine, and thrown into Newgate. His mis- 
 fortunes will be to me of no little service. Last week, being in 
 the pit of Drury-lane Theatre, I contracted an immediate 
 acquaintance (which you know is no hard task to me) with a 
 young gentleman in Cheapside, partner in a music shop, the 
 greatest in the city. Hearing I could write, he desired me to 
 w rite a few songs for him : this I did the same night, and con- 
 veyed them to him the next morning. These he showed to a
 
 xl THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 Doctor in IMusic, and I am invited to treat with this Doctor, on 
 the tooting of a composer, for Ranelagh and the Gardens. 
 Bravo, hey boys, np we go! Besides the advantage of visiting 
 these expensive and polite places gratis, my vanity will be fed 
 with the sight of my name in copperplate, and my sister will 
 receive a bundle of printed songs, the words by her brother. 
 These are not all my acquisitions : a gentleman who knows me 
 at the Chapter, as an author, would have introduced me as a 
 companion to the young Duke of Northumberland in his 
 intended general tour. But, alas! I spake no tongue but my 
 own !" 
 
 And so it went on for another couple of pages. 
 The run of his imagination was still shining in full 
 splendour — and kept shining for some months longer. 
 
 Chatterton's next letter, dated "Tom's Coffee-house, 
 May 30, 1770," was addressed to his sister. The poet 
 is more sanguine than ever. He says : — 
 
 "I have engaged to live with a gentleman, the brother of a 
 Lord (a Scotch one indeed), who is going to advance pretty 
 deeply into the bookselling branches : I shall have lodging and 
 boarding, genteel and elegant, gratis ; this article, in the quarter 
 of the town he lives, with worse accommodations, would be ;^50 
 per annum. I shall have, likewise, no inconsiderable premium ; 
 and assure yourself every month shall end to your advantage. I 
 will send you two silks this summer; and expect, in answer to 
 this, what colours you prefer. My mother shall not be forgotten. 
 My employment will be writing a voluminous History of London, 
 to appear in numbers the beginning of the next winter. As this 
 will not, like writing political essays, oblige me to go to the 
 coffee-house, I shall be able to serve you the more by it ; but it 
 will necessitate me to go to Oxford, Cambridge, Lincoln, 
 Coventry, and every collegiate church near; not at all disagree- 
 able journeys, and not to me expensive. The Manuscript
 
 THOMAS CIIATTERTON. xU 
 
 Glossary I mentioned in my last must not be omitted. If 
 money flowed as fast upon me as honours, I would give you a 
 portion of ;^5,ooo. You have doubtless heard of the Lord 
 Mayor's remonstrating, and addressing the King ; but it will be a 
 piece of news to inform you that I have been with the Lord 
 Mayor on the occasion. Having addressed an essay to his 
 Lordship, it was very well received; perhaps better than it 
 deserved ; and I waited on his Lordship, to have his approbation 
 • to address a second letter to him on the subject of the remon- 
 strance and its reception. His Lordship received me as politely 
 as a citizen could, and warmly invited me to call on him again. 
 The rest is a secret. " 
 
 The more than sanguine temper of the poet is 
 visible enough here: but still more in the following 
 passage, where the "booksellers," of which he talked 
 so much, but knew so little, turn up again. 
 
 "Essay writing," he exclaims, in a didactic manner, which 
 would bring forth a smile, were it not so sadly serious, " has this 
 advantage, — you are sure of constant pay; and when you have 
 once wrote a piece which makes the author inquired after, you 
 may bring the booksellers to your own terms. Essays on the 
 patriotic side fetch no more than what the copy is sold for. As 
 the patriots themselves are searching for a place, they have no 
 gratuities to spare On the other hand, un- 
 popular essays will not even be accepted ; and you must pay to 
 have them printed ; but then you seldom lose by it. Courtiers 
 are so sensible of their deficiency in merit, that they generally 
 reward all who know how to daub them with the appearance 
 of it." 
 
 While the boy-poet was writing all this, building 
 his high castles in the air, he had scarcely bread to 
 eat, nevertheless, with boundless generosity, and an
 
 Xlii THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 utter abnegation of all feelings of selfishness, he spent 
 even the few shillings which he managed to extract 
 from those wonderful friends of his genius, the book- 
 sellers, upon presents for his beloved mother and 
 sister. Writing to the former at the beginning of 
 July, he says — 
 
 " Dear Mother, — I send you in the box six cups and 
 saucers, with two basins for my sister. If a china teapot and 
 creampot is, in your opinion, necessary, I will send them ; 
 but I am informed they are unfashionable, and that the red china 
 which you are provided with is more in use. A cargo of 
 patterns for yourself, with a snuff-box, right French, and very 
 curious in my opinion. Two fans — the silver one is more grave 
 than the other, which would suit my sister best. But that I 
 leave to you both. — Some British herb snuff in the box; be 
 
 careful how you open it Be assured, whenever 
 
 I have the power, my will won't be wanting to testify that I 
 remember you. 
 
 "Yours, T. Chatterton." 
 
 About the time this note was penned, Chatterton 
 removed from the house of the plasterer, at Shoreditch, 
 where he had been for nine weeks, and went to live 
 in lodgings at No. 4 Brook Street, Holborn — a 
 dwelling now converted, together with the adjoining 
 houses, into a large furniture store. It was probably 
 nothing else but dire poverty which made him leave 
 "one of I\Irs. Walmsley's best rooms," mentioned in 
 the letter to his mother, and take up his quarters at a 
 meaner place. The narrow chamber in which he now
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON. xliii 
 
 came to lodge belonged to a Mrs. Angel, a sackmaker, 
 a kindly woman, who, though very poor herself, took 
 pity upon the strange boy with the flashing eyes, and 
 more than once invited him to her humble table. 
 Chatterton accepted such slight ofierings of hospitality 
 as long as he thought that his distress was unknown 
 to his landlady; but when he found that she knew 
 of his poverty, his demon, his "damn'd native un- 
 controllable pride," drove him to reject even the crust 
 of bread so kindly offered. He did the same with 
 another invitation to the house of a Mr. Cross, a 
 druggist in Brook Street, whose acquaintance he had 
 accidentally made. Once, and once only, he over- 
 came his pride so far as to partake of a feast of 
 oysters with Mr. Cross, who pressed him hard, under 
 the impression, but too well founded, that he was 
 slowly starving. Chatterton first refused to eat at 
 all, saying he did not feel hungry; but, once began, 
 eat ravenously, like one who had not tasted food 
 for a long time. It was the last good meal his lips 
 tasted. 
 
 The golden dreams of glory which the poet-boy had 
 cherished so long now collapsed all of a sudden. 
 Death in its most frightful shape — death from starva- 
 tion — was staring him in the face. That the sums paid 
 to him for his literary labours were insufficient to 
 purchase even the coarsest food, he was fully aware of, 
 from entries in his pocket-book : —
 
 J 
 
 xliv THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 £, s. d, 
 
 "Received to May 23, of Mr. Hamilton, for J/Zr/i/A'j'i'x, in 6 
 
 ,, ofB., 12 
 
 ,, of Fell, for the Consuliad, . . . o 10 6 
 ,., of Mr. Hamilton, for Caiididiis and Foreign 
 
 yournal, . . . . . o 2 O 
 
 ,, of Mr. Fell, o 10 6 
 
 , , Middlesex Journal^ . . . . 086 
 
 ,, Mr. Hamilton, for 16 Songs, . . o 10 6 
 
 4 15 9 
 
 Even a poet living, like Chatterton, almost entirely 
 upon bread and water, could not exist at this rate of 
 remuneration, — sixteen songs for half a guinea, or at the 
 rate of eightpence per song. There were evidently 
 only two courses open to the unhappy youth under 
 these circumstances, — either to accept the proffered 
 kindness of friends in London, and live to some 
 extent upon alms, or to return immediately to his 
 relations at Bristol. Chatterton chose neither alterna- 
 tive, but, driven by the furies of pride and despair, 
 resolved upon self-destruction. 
 
 At the beginning of August, 1770, his resources 
 were drawing to an ebb. He began to eat stale bread, 
 that it might last the longer. But even stale bread he 
 was not able to purchase long, and he curtailed his 
 rations from day to day. For a whole week he existed 
 upon a single loaf All the while he paid his rent 
 punctually, and on one occasion when his landlady, 
 seeing his fearfully attenuated state, wished to return
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON. xlv 
 
 him a portion of it, he got very angry, and pointing to 
 
 his forehead, exclaimed — " I have that here which 
 
 will get me more." His unconquerable pride had not 
 
 yet deserted him, though his physical condition got 
 
 lower every day. His cheeks were pale and hollow, 
 
 and there was an awful wildness about his looks. On 
 
 the 2 2d of August, he went out for the last time to 
 
 get a loaf, upon credit; but was refused at the shop, 
 
 the baker's wife telling him that she could let him 
 
 have no more bread until he had paid the sum of three 
 
 shillings and sixpence then owing. Chatterton said 
 
 nothing, but went straightway to ]\Ir. Cross, the 
 
 druggist, asking for some arsenic "for an experiment." 
 
 He readily got the poison — far more readily than the 
 
 bread. 
 
 The next morning, August the 23d, Mrs. Angel did 
 
 not see her lodger, but heard faint noises come from 
 
 his room. They gradually ceased, and then there was 
 
 deep silence. Waiting another day and night, the 
 
 room was broken open, and the poet was found 
 
 " lying on the bed, with his legs hanging over, quite 
 
 dead. Some bits of arsenic were between his teeth." 
 
 The room was strewn with papers, torn into minute 
 
 fragments, but there was not a letter to any one, nor 
 
 a line of explanation of the fatal deed. It explained 
 
 itself:— 
 
 "Black despair, 
 
 The shadow of a starless night was thrown 
 
 Over the earth in which he moved alone."
 
 Xlvi THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 Thus died Thomas Chatterton, aged seventeen 
 years and nine months. The usual coroner's inquest 
 was held, and the usual verdict of insanity returned. 
 The poet was buried among the paupers in Shoe Lane ; 
 but there was no rest, even here, for his bones. Some 
 time after, the burial ground was torn up to be con- 
 verted into a market — Faringdon market — and the 
 dust of the poet scattered to the winds. 
 
 Bristol has raised a memorial to the fame of one 
 of her most genial sons. Close to the church of St. 
 Mary Redclifte the poet stands, in the dress of 
 Colston's charity school, with a roll of parchment in 
 his hand, and the inscription underneath : — 
 
 " 00 tljE ^Icinorn of 
 "THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 " Reader, judge not ; if thou art a Christian — behave that he 
 shall be judged by a superior Power — to that Power alone is he 
 now answerable."
 
 A HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS DAY.* 
 
 Almighty Framer of the skies ! 
 Oh let our pure devotion rise 
 
 Like incense in thy sight ! 
 Wrapt in impenetrable shade 
 The texture of our souls were made, 
 
 Till thy command gave light. 
 
 * Written at the age of Eleven.
 
 48 ChatiertoiCs Poems. 
 
 The Sun of Glory gleam'd the ray, 
 Refined the darkness into day, 
 
 And bid the vapours fly : 
 Impell'd by His eternal Love 
 
 ''"K ■\^' ^^ ^^^^ -^^^ palaces above 
 To cheer our gloomy sky. 
 
 How shall we celebrate the day 
 When God appear'd in mortal clay, 
 
 The mark of worldly scorn ; 
 When the archangel's heavenly lays 
 Attempted the Redeemer's praise, 
 
 And hail'd salvation's morn ! 
 
 A humble form the Godhead wore. 
 The pains of poverty He bore, 
 
 To gaudy pomp unknown : 
 Though in a human walk He trode, 
 Still was the Man Almighty God, 
 
 In glory all His own. 
 
 Despised, oppress'd, the Godhead bears \^ Ay 
 The torments of this vale of tears, 
 
 Nor bade His vengeance rise; 
 He saw the creatures He had made 
 Revile His power. His peace invade, — 
 
 He saw with Mercy's eyes. 
 
 How shall we celebrate His Name, ^^ ^ -1 
 
 Who groan'd beneath a life of shame, 
 
 In all afflictions tried! 
 The soul is raptured to conceive 
 A truth which Being must believe — 
 
 The God eternal died.
 
 S/j Bid'. 49 
 
 My scul, exert thy powers— adore ; 
 Upon Devotion's plumage soar, 
 
 To celebrate the day : 
 The God from whom creation sprung 
 Shall animate my grateful tongue ; 
 
 From Him I'll catch the lay ! 
 
 SLY DICK. 
 
 Sharp was the frost, the wind was high, .^ 
 
 And sparkling stars bedeck'd the sky. 
 
 Sly Dick, in arts of cunning skill'd, 
 
 Whose rapine all his pockets fill'd, i- 
 
 Had laid him down to take his rest. 
 
 And soothe with sleep his anxious breast. 
 
 'Twas thus a dark infernal sprite, 
 
 A native of the blackest night. 
 
 Portending mischief to devise. 
 
 Upon Sly Dick he cast his eyes ; 
 
 Then straight descends the infernal sprite. 
 
 And in his chamber does alight: 
 
 In visions he before him stands, 
 
 And his attention he commands. 
 
 Thus spake the sprite,—" Hearken, my friend, 
 
 And to my counsels now attend. 
 
 Within the garret's spacious dome 
 
 There lies a well-stored wealthy room. 
 
 Well stored with cloth and stockings too, 
 
 Which I suppose will do for you.
 
 50 Chaitaioii's Poems. 
 
 First, from the cloth take thou a purse; 
 For thee it will not be the worse ; 
 A noble purse rewards thy pains, 
 A purse to hold thy filching gains ; 
 Then for the stockings, let them reeve. 
 And not a scrap behind thee leave ; 
 Five bundles for a penny sell, 
 And pence to thee will come pell mell. 
 See it be done with speed and care." 
 Thus spake the sprite, and sunk in air. 
 
 When in the morn, with thoughts erect, 'A^V 
 
 Sly Dick did on his dream reflect —   
 Why, faith, thinks he, 'tis something too; 
 It might — perhaps — it might be true: 
 I'll go and see. Away he hies. 
 And to the garret quick he flies, 
 Enters the room, cuts up the clothes, 
 And after that reeves up the hose ; 
 Then of the cloth he purses made- 
 Purses to hold his filching trade. 
 
 * * * Ciftcra dcsiini. * * * 
 
 APOSTATE WILL.* 
 
 In days of old, when Wesley's power 
 Gather'd new strength by every hour. 
 Apostate Will, just sunk in trade, 
 Resolved his bargain should be made; 
 
 * This poem was taken from an old pocket-book of Chattertoii's.
 
 Apostate WilL 5^ 
 
 Then straight to Wesley he repairs, 
 And puts on grave and solemn airs. 
 Then thus the pious man address'd : 
 "Good sir, I think your doctrine best; 
 Your servant will a Wesley be, 
 Therefore the principles teach me." 
 The preacher then instructions gave 
 How he in this world should behave. 
 
 He hears, assents, and gives a nod — 
 
 Says every word's the word of God ; 
 Then, lifting his dissembling eyes, 
 
 " How blessed is the sect !" he cries ; 
 
 "Nor Bingham, Young, nor Stillingfleet 
 
 Shall make me from this sect retreat." 
 
 He then his circumstance declared. 
 
 How hardly with him matters fared, 
 
 Begg'd him next morning/fr to make 
 
 A small collection for his sake. 
 
 The preacher said, " Do not repine, 
 
 The whole collection shall be thine." 
 
 With looks demure, and cringing bows, 
 
 About his business straight he goes. 
 
 His outward acts were grave and prim, — • 
 
 The Methodist appear'd in him; 
 
 But, be his outward what it will, 
 
 His heart was an apostate's still. 
 
 He'd oft profess an hallow'd flame, 
 
 And everywhere preach'd Wesley's name : 
 
 He was a preacher, and what not, 
 
 As long as money could be got ; 
 
 He'd oft profess, with holy fire. 
 
 The labourer's worthy of his hire. 
 
 It happen'd once upon a time. 
 
 When all his works were in their prime,
 
 52 Chattcrtoii's Poems. 
 
 A noble place appear'd in view ; 
 
 Then to the Methodists adieu — 
 
 A Methodist no more he'll be, 
 The Protestants serve best for he. 
 Then to the curate straight he ran, 
 And thus address'd the reverend man: 
 " I was a Methodist, 'tis true — 
 'p- With penitence I turn to you. 
 
 Oh that it were your bounteous will 
 That I the vacant place might fill ! 
 With justice I'd myself acquit, 
 Do everything that's right and fit." 
 The curate straightway gave consent — 
 To take the place he quickly went. 
 Accordingly he took the place 
 And keeps it with dissembled grace. 
 
 Aprili^, 1754. 
 
 NARVA AND MORED. 
 
 "Recite the loves of Narva and Mored," 
 
 The priest of Chalma's triple idol said. 
 
 High from the ground the youthful warriors sprung, 
 
 Loud on the concave shell the lances rung; 
 
 In all the mystic mazes of the dance, 
 
 The youths of Banny's burning sands advance, 
 
 Whilst the soft virgin, panting, looks behind, 
 
 And rides upon the pinions of the wind; 
 
 Ascends the mountain's brow, and measures round 
 
 The steepy cliffs of Chalma's sacred ground ; —
 
 Narva and Mo red. 53 
 
 Chalma, the god whose noisy thunders fly 
 
 Through the dark covering of the midnight sky; 
 
 Whose arm directs the close embattled host, 
 
 And sinks the labouring vessels on the coast; — 
 
 Chalma, whose excellence is known from far ; 
 
 From Lupa's rocky hill to Calabar, — 
 
 The guardian god of Afric and the isles, 
 
 Where Nature in her strongest vigour smiles ; 
 
 Where the blue blossom of the forky thorn 
 
 Bends with the nectar of the opening morn; 
 
 Where ginger's aromatic, matted root, 
 
 Creeps through the mead, and up the mountains shoot. 
 
 Three times the virgin, swimming on the breeze. 
 Danced in the shadow of the mystic trees ; 
 When, like a dark cloud spreading to the view, 
 The first-born sons of war and blood pursue : 
 Swift as the elk they pour along the plain ; 
 Swift as the flying clouds distilling rain. 
 Swift as the boundings of the youthful roe 
 They course around, and lengthen as they go. 
 Like the long chain of rocks, whose summits rise 
 Far in the sacred regions of the skies. 
 Upon whose top the blackening tempest lowers, 
 Whilst down its side the gushing torrent pours, — 
 Like the long cliffy mountains which extend 
 From Lorbar's cave to where the nations end, 
 Which sink in darkness, thickening and obscure, 
 Impenetrable, mystic, and impure, — 
 The flying terrors of the war advance, 
 And round the sacred oak repeat the dance. 
 Furious they twist around the gloomy trees. 
 Like leaves in autumn, twirling with the breeze.
 
 54 Chatiertoiis Poems. 
 
 So, when the splendour of the dying day 
 
 Darts the red lustre of the watery .way, 
 
 Sudden beneath Toddida's whistling brink • 
 
 The cirding billows in wild eddies sink, 
 
 Whirl furious round, and the loud bursting wave 
 
 Sinks down to Chalma's sacerdotal cave, 
 
 Explores the palaces on Zira's coast, 
 
 Where howls the war-song of the chieftain's ghost ; 
 
 Where the artificer in realms below 
 
 Gilds the rich lance or beautifies the bow ; 
 
 From the young palm tree spins the useful twine, 
 
 Or makes the teeth of elephants divine : 
 
 Where the pale children of the feeble sun. 
 
 In search of gold, through every climate run, 
 
 P'rom burning heat to freezing torments go, 
 
 And live in all vicissitudes of woe : 
 
 Like the loud eddies of Toddida's sea, 
 
 The warriors circle the mysterious tree ; 
 
 Till spent with exercise they spread around. 
 
 Upon the opening blossoms of the ground. 
 
 The priestess, rising, sings the sacred tale. 
 
 And the loud chorus echoes through the dale. 
 
 PRIESTESS. 
 
 Far from the burning sands of Calabar, 
 Far from the lustre of the morning star, 
 Far from the pleasure of the holy morn. 
 Far from the blessedness of Chalma's horn, 
 Now rest the souls of Narva and Mored, 
 Laid in the dust, and number'd with the dead. 
 Dear are their memories to us, and long. 
 Long shall their attributes be known in song.
 
 Narva and Mored. I 
 
 Their lives were transient as the meadow flower — 
 
 Ripen'd in ages, wither'd in an hour. 
 
 Chalma reward them in his gloomy cave, 
 
 And open all the prisons of the grave. 
 
 Bred to the service of the godhead's throne, 
 
 And living but to serve his God alone, 
 
 Narva was beauteous as the opening day, 
 
 When on the spangling waves the sunbeams play, 
 
 When the macaw, ascending to the sky. 
 
 Views the bright splendour with a steady eye. 
 
 Tall as the house of Chalma's dark retreat. 
 
 Compact and firm as Rhadal Ynca's fleet, 
 
 Completely beauteous as a summer's sun. 
 
 Was Narva, by his excellence undone. 
 
 Where the soft Togla creeps along the meads, 
 
 Through scented calamus and fragrant reeds. 
 
 Where the sweet Zinsa spreads its matted bed, 
 
 Lived the still sweeter flower, the young Mored. 
 
 Black was her face, as Togla's hidden cell, 
 
 Soft as the moss where hissing adders dwell. 
 
 As to the sacred court she brought a fawn, 
 
 The sportive tenant of the spicy lawn. 
 
 She saw and loved; and Narva, too, forgot 
 
 His sacred vestment and his mystic lot. 
 
 Long had the mutual sigh, the mutual tear, 
 
 Burst from the breast and scorn'd confinement there. 
 
 Existence was a torment ! O my breast, 
 
 Can I find accents to unfold the rest? 
 
 Lock'd in each other's arms, from Hyga's cave, 
 
 They plung'd relentless to a watery grave ; 
 
 And falling, murmur'd to the powers above, 
 
 "Gods ! take our lives, unless we live to love.'' 
 
 C. 
 
 Shoreditch, May 2, 1770.
 
 5 6 Chattei'toii s Poems. 
 
 HECCAR AND GAIRA. 
 
 AN AFRICAN ECLOGUE. 
 
 Where the rough Caigra rolls the surgy wave, 
 
 Urging his thunders through the echoing cave; 
 
 Where the sharp rocks, in distant horror seen. 
 
 Drive the white currents through the spreading green ; 
 
 Where the loud tiger, pawing in his rage, 
 
 Bids the black archers of the wilds engage ; 
 
 Stretch'd on the sand, two panting warriors lay 
 
 In all the burning torments of the day; 
 
 Their bloody javelins reek'd one living steam; 
 
 Their bows were broken at the roaring stream ; 
 
 Heccar, the chief of Jarra's fruitful hill. 
 
 Where the dark vapours nightly dews distil, 
 
 Saw Gaira, the companion of his soul. 
 
 Extended where loud Caigra's billows roll — 
 
 Gaira, the king of warring archers found, 
 
 Where daily lightnings plough the sandy ground, 
 
 Where brooding tempests howl along the sky, 
 
 Where rising deserts, whirl'd in circles, fly. 
 
 HECCAR. 
 
 Gaira, 'tis useless to attempt the chace. 
 Swifter than hunted wolves they urge the race ; 
 Their lessening forms elude the straining eye, 
 Upon the plumage of macaws they fly. 
 Let us return, and strip the reeking slain. 
 Leaving the bodies on the burning plain.
 
 Hcccar and Gaira. 57 
 
 GAIRA. 
 
 Heccar, my vengeance still exclaims for blood — 
 'Twould drink a wider stream than Caigra's flood. 
 This javelin, oft in nobler quarrels tried, 
 Put the loud thunder of their arms aside. 
 Fast as the streaming rain, I pour'd the dart, 
 Hurling a whirlwind through the trembling heart ; 
 But now my lingering feet revenge denies ; 
 Oh could I throw my javelin from my eyes ! 
 
 HECCAR. 
 
 When Gaira the united armies broke. 
 Death wing'd the arrow, death impell'd the stroke. 
 See, piled in mountains, on the sanguine sand, 
 The blasted of the lightnings of thy hand. 
 Search the brown desert and the glossy green, 
 There are the trophies of thy valour seen. 
 The scatter'd bones, mantled in silver white. 
 Once animated, dared the force in fight. 
 The children of the wave, whose pallid race 
 Views the faint sun display a languid face, 
 From the red fury of thy justice fled, 
 Swifter than torrents from their rocky bed. 
 Fear, with a sicken'd silver, tinged their hue; 
 The guilty fear when vengeance is their due. 
 
 GAIRA. 
 Rouse not remembrance from her shadowy cell, 
 Nor of those bloody sons of mischief tell. 
 Cawna, O Cawna ! deck'd in sable charms. 
 What distant region holds thee from my arms ?
 
 58 Chattel toiis Poems. 
 
 Cavvna, the pride of Afric's sultry vales, 
 Soft as the cooling murmur of the gales, 
 Majestic as the many colour'd snake, 
 Trailing his glories through the blossom'd brake ; 
 Black as the glossy rocks where Eascal roars, 
 Foaming through sandy wastes to Jaghir's shores ; 
 Swift as the arrow, hasting to the breast. 
 Was Cawna, the companion of my rest. 
 
 The sun sat lowering in the western sky, 
 
 The swelling tempest spread around the eye ; 
 
 Upon my Cawna's bosom I reclined, 
 
 Catching the breathing whispers of the wind. 
 
 Swift fiom the wood a prowling tiger came ; 
 
 Dreadful his voice, his eyes a glowing flame ; 
 
 I bent the bow, the never-erring dart_^ 
 
 Pierced his rough armour, but escaped his heart ; 
 
 He fled, though wounded, to a distant waste. 
 
 I urged the furious flight with fatal haste ; 
 
 He fell, he died, spent in the fiery toil — 
 
 I stripp'd his carcase of the furry spoil ; 
 
 And as the varied spangles met my eye. 
 
 On this, I cried, shall my loved Cawna lie. 
 
 The dusky midnight hung the skies in gray ; 
 
 Impell'd by love, I wing'd the airy way ; 
 
 In the deep valley and the mossy plain 
 
 I sought my Cawna, but I sought in vain. 
 
 The pallid shadows of the azure waves 
 
 Had made my Cawna and my children slaves. 
 
 Reflection maddens to recall the hour. 
 
 The gods had given mc to the daemon's power. 
 
 The dusk slow vanish'd from the hated lawn ; 
 
 I gain'd a mountain glaring with the dawn.
 
 Heccar and Gaira. 59 
 
 There the full sails, expanded to the wind, 
 btruck horror and distraction in my mind ; 
 There Cawna, mingled with a worthless train, 
 In common slavery drags the hated chain. 
 Now judge, my Heccar, have I cause for rage? 
 Should aught the thunder of my arm assuage ? 
 In ever-reeking blood this javelin dyed, 
 With vengeance shall be never satisfied ; 
 I'll strew the beaches with the mighty dead, 
 And tinge the lily of their features red. 
 
 HECCAR. 
 When the loud shriekings of the hostile cry 
 Roughly salute my ear, enraged I'll fly, 
 Send the sharp arrow c[uivering through the heart, 
 Chill the hot vitals with the vcnom'd dart. 
 Nor heed the shining steel or noisy smoke — 
 Gaira and Vengeance shall inspire the stroke. 
 
 COLIN INSTRUCTED. 
 
 Young Colin was as stout a boy 
 As ever gave a maiden joy ; 
 But long in vain he told his tale 
 To black-eyed Biddy of the Dale. 
 
 " Ah why," the whining shepherd cried, 
 " Am I alone your smiles denied ? 
 I only tell in vain my tale 
 To black-eyed Biddy of the Dale."
 
 6o Chatterlo7i's Poems. 
 
 " True, Colin," said the laughing dame, 
 " You only whimper out your ilame ; 
 Others do more than sigh their tale 
 To black-eyed Biddy of the Dale." 
 
 He took the hint, &c. 
 
 THE ADVICE. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO MISS M R , OF BRISTOL. 
 
 Revolving in their destined sphere, 
 The hours begin another year 
 
 As rapidly to fly; 
 Ah ! think, Maria (ere in gray 
 Those auburn tresses fade away) 
 
 So youth and beauty die. 
 
 Though now the captivated throng 
 Adore with ilattery and song, 
 
 And all before you bow ; 
 Whilst, unattentive to the strain. 
 You hear the humble muse complain. 
 
 Or wreathe your frowning brow ; 
 
 Though poor Pitholeon's feeble line, 
 In opposition to the nine, 
 
 Still violates your name : 
 Though tales of passion meanly told. 
 As dull as Cumberland, as cold. 
 
 Strive to confess a flame :
 
 The Advice. 6i 
 
 Yet, when that bloom and dancing lire, 
 In silver'd reverence shall expire, 
 
 Aged, wrinkled, and defaced, 
 To keep one lover's flame alive. 
 Requires the genius of a Clive, 
 
 With Walpole's mental taste. 
 
 Though rapture wantons in your air. 
 Though beyond simile you're fair. 
 
 Free, affable, serene ; 
 Yet still one attribute divine 
 Should in your composition shine — 
 
 Sincerity I mean. 
 
 Though numerous swains before you fall, 
 'Tis empty admiration all, 
 
 'Tis all that you require. 
 How momentary are their chains ! 
 Like you, how unsincere the strains 
 
 Of those who but admire ! 
 
 Accept, for once, advice from me, 
 And let the eye of censure see 
 
 Maria can be true: 
 No more for fools or empty beaux. 
 Heaven's representatives disclose. 
 
 Or butterflies pursue. 
 
 Fly to your worthiest lover's arms, 
 To him resign your swelling charms. 
 
 And meet his generous breast ; 
 Or if Pitholeon suits your taste, 
 His muse, with tatter'd fragments graced, 
 
 Shall read your cares to rest.
 
 62 Chaticiioiis Poems. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 FANNY OF THE HILL. I77O. 
 
 If gentle Love's immortal fire 
 
 Could animate the quill, 
 Soon should the rapture-speaking lyre 
 
 Sing Fanny of the Hill. 
 
 My panting heart incessant moves, 
 
 No interval 'tis still; 
 And all my ravish'd nature loves 
 
 Sweet Fanny of the Hill. 
 
 Her dying, soft, expressive eye. 
 
 Her elegance must kill : 
 Ye Gods ! how many thousands die 
 
 For Fanny of the Hill. 
 
 A love-taught tongue, angelic air, 
 
 A sentiment, a skill 
 In all the graces of the fair, 
 
 Mark Fanny of the Hill. 
 
 Thou mighty Power, eternal Fate, 
 
 My happiness to fill. 
 Oh bless a wretched lover's state 
 
 With Fanny of the Hill.
 
 THE DEATH OF NICOU. 
 
 On Tiber's banks, Tiber, whose waters glide 
 In slow meanders down to Gaigra's side; 
 And circling all the horrid mountain round, 
 Rushes impetuous to the deep profound, 
 Rolls o'er the ragged rocks with hideous yell, 
 Collects its waves beneath the earth's vast shell-
 
 64 Cliattcrtoiis Poems. 
 
 There for awhile, in loud confusion hurl'd, 
 
 It crumbles mountains down and shakes the world, 
 
 Till, borne upon the pinions of the air, 
 
 Through the rent earth the bursting waves appear; 
 
 Fiercely propell'd, the whiten'd billows rise. 
 
 Break from the cavern, and ascend the skies ; 
 
 Then lost and conquer'd by superior force, 
 
 Through hot Arabia holds its rapid course ; — 
 
 On Tiber's banks, where scarlet jasmines bloom, 
 
 And purple aloes shed a rich perfume ; 
 
 Where, when the sun is melting in his heat. 
 
 The reeking tigers find a cool retreat — 
 
 Bask in the sedges, lose the sultry beam, 
 
 And wanton with their shadows in the stream; — 
 
 On Tiber's banks, by sacred priests revered. 
 
 Where in the days of old a god appear'd, 
 
 'Twas in the dead of night, at Chalma's feast. 
 
 The tribe of Alra slept around the priest. 
 
 He spoke ; as evening thunders bursting near. 
 
 His horrid accents broke upon the ear : 
 
 " Attend, Alraddas, with your sacred priest ! 
 
 This day the sun is rising in the east ; 
 
 The sun, which shall illumine all the earth. 
 
 Now, now is rising in a mortal birth." 
 
 He vanish'd like a vapour of the night. 
 
 And sunk away in a faint blaze of light. 
 
 Swift from the branches of the holy oak 
 
 Horror, confusion, fear, and torment broke ; 
 
 And still, when Midnight trims her mazy lamp. 
 
 They take their way through Tiber's watery swamp. 
 
 On Tiber's banks, close rank'd, a warring train, 
 
 Stretch'd to the distant edge of Galea's plain : 
 
 So when, arrived at Gaigra's highest steep, 
 
 We view the wide expansion of the deep ;
 
 The Death of Nicoii. 
 
 See in the gilding of her watery robe 
 The quick declension of the circling globe ; 
 From the blue sea a chain of mountains rise, 
 Blended at once with water and with skies, 
 Beyond our sight in vast extension curl'd, 
 The check of waves, the guardians of the world. 
 Strong were the warriors, as the ghost of Cawn, 
 Who threw the Hill-of-archers to the lawn; 
 When the soft earth at his appearance fled, 
 And rising billows play'd around his head ; 
 When a strong tempest, rising from the main, 
 Dash'd the full clouds unbroken on the plain. 
 Nicou, immortal in the sacred song, 
 Held the red sword of war, and led the strong; 
 From his own tribe the sable warriors came. 
 Well tried in battle, and well known in fame. 
 Nicou, descended from the god of war, 
 Who lived coeval with the morning star : 
 Narada was his name. Who cannot tell 
 How all the world through great Narada fell.^ 
 Vichon, the god who ruled above the skies, 
 Look'd on Narada, but with envious eyes : 
 The warrior dared him, ridiculed his might, 
 Bent his white bow, and summon'd him to fight. 
 Vichon, disdainful, bade his lightnings fly, 
 And scatter'd burning arrows in the sky; 
 Threw down a star, the armour of his feet, 
 To burn the air with supernatural heat ; 
 Bid a loud tempest roar beneath the ground ; 
 Lifted the sea, and all the earth was drown'd. 
 Narada still escaped; a sacred tree 
 Lifted him up, and bore him through the sea. 
 The waters still ascending fierce and high. 
 He tower'd into the chambers of the sky. 
 
 J
 
 66 CJiatteiiai's Poems. 
 
 There Vichon sat, his armour on his bed ; 
 
 He thought Narada with the mighty dead. 
 
 Before his seat the heavenly warrior stands, 
 
 The lightning quivering in his yellow hands. 
 
 The god, astonish'd, dropp'd : hurl'd from the shore, 
 
 He dropp'd to torments, and to rise no more. 
 
 Headlong he falls ; 'tis his own arms compel, 
 
 Condemn'd in ever-burning tires to dwell. 
 
 From this Narada mighty Nicou sprung — 
 
 The mighty Nicou, furious, wild, and young, 
 
 Who led th' embattled archers to the field, 
 
 And bore a thunderbolt upon his shield : 
 
 That shield his glorious father died to gain, 
 
 When the white warriors fled along the plain, 
 
 When the full sails could not provoke the flood 
 
 Till Nicou came and swell'd the seas with blood. 
 
 Slow at the end of his robust array 
 
 The mighty warrior pensive took his way, 
 
 Against the son of Nair, the young Rorest, 
 
 Once the companion of his youthful breast. 
 
 Strong were the passions of the son of Nair, 
 
 Strong as the tempest of the evening air; 
 
 Insatiate in desire, fierce as the boar. 
 
 Firm in resolve as Cannie's rocky shore. 
 
 Long had the gods endeavour'd to destroy 
 
 All Nicou's friendship, happiness, and joy. 
 
 They sought in vain, till Vicat, Vichon's son. 
 
 Never in feats of wickedness outdone. 
 
 Saw Nica, sister to the Mountain king, 
 
 Dress'd beautiful, with all the flowers of spring : 
 
 He saw, and scatter'd poison in her eyes ; 
 
 From limb to limb in varied forms he flies, 
 
 Dwelt on her crimson lip, and added grace 
 
 To every glossy feature of her face.
 
 The Death of Nicou. 67 
 
 Rorest v.-as fired with passion at the sight. 
 Friendship and honour sunk to Vicat's right : 
 He saw, he loved, and, burning with desire, 
 Bore the soft maid from brother, sister, sire. 
 Pining with sorrow, Nica faded, died. 
 Like a fair aloe in its morning pride. 
 This brought the warrior to the bloody mead. 
 And sent to young Rorest the threatening reed. 
 He drew his army forth. Oh, need I tell 
 That Nicou conquer'd, and the lover fell! 
 His breathless army mantled all the plain. 
 And Death sat smiling on the heaps of slain. 
 The battle ended, with his reeking dart 
 The pensive Nicou pierced his beating heart; 
 And to his mourning valiant warriors cried, 
 " I and my sister's ghost are satisfied." 
 
 FEBRUARY. 
 
 AN FXEGY. 
 
 Begin, my muse, the imitative lay, 
 
 Aonian doxies sound the thrumming string; 
 
 Attempt no number of the plaintive Gay, 
 Let me like midnight cats, or Collins, sing. 
 
 If in the trammels of the doleful line 
 
 The bounding hail or drilling rain descend. 
 
 Come, brooding Melancholy, power divine. 
 And every unform'd mass of words amend.
 
 68 Chatterton^s Poems. 
 
 Now the rough goat withdraws his curhng horns, 
 And the cold waterer twirls his circling mop : 
 
 Swift, sudden anguish darts through altering corns, 
 And the spruce mercer trembles in his shop. 
 
 Now infant authors, maddening for renown. 
 Extend the plume and hum about the stage, 
 
 Procure a benefit, amuse the town. 
 And proudly glitter in a title page. 
 
 Now, wrapp'd in ninefoM fur, his squeamish grace 
 Defies the fury of the howling storm ; 
 
 And whilst the tempest whistles round his face. 
 Exults to find his mantled carcase warm. 
 
 Now rumbling coaches furious drive along, 
 
 Full of the majesty of city dames. 
 Whose jewels, sparkling in the gaudy throng. 
 
 Raise strange emotions and invidious flames. 
 
 'o^ 
 
 Now Merit, happy in the calm of place, 
 
 To mortals as a Highlander appears, 
 And, conscious of the excellence of lace, 
 
 With spreading frogs and gleaming spangles glares. 
 
 Whilst Envy, on a tripod seated nigh, 
 
 In form a shoe-boy, daubs the valued fruit, 
 
 And, darting lightnings from his vengeful eye, 
 Raves about Wilkes, and pohtics, and Bute. 
 
 Now Barry, taller than a grenadier, 
 
 Dwindles into a stripling of eighteen; 
 Or sabled in Othello, breaks the ear, 
 
 Exerts his voice, and totters to the scene
 
 February. 69 
 
 Now Foote, a looking-glass for all mankind, 
 
 Applies his wax to personal defects, 
 But leaves untouch'd the image of the mind : 
 
 His art no mental quality reflects. 
 
 Now Drury's potent king extorts applause, 
 And pit, box, gallery, echo, " How divine!" 
 
 Whilst, versed in all the drama's mystic laws, 
 His graceful action saves the wooden line. 
 
 Now — but what further can the muses sing? 
 
 Now dropping particles of water fall ; 
 Now vapours, riding on the north wind's wing. 
 
 With transitory darkness shadow all. 
 
 Alas ! how joyless the descriptive theme, 
 When sorrow on the writer's quiet preys ; 
 
 And like a mouse in Cheshire cheese supreme. 
 Devours the substance of the lessening bays. 
 
 Come, February, lend thy darkest sky — 
 
 There teach the winter'd muse with clouds to soar 
 
 Come, February, lift the number high ; 
 
 Let the sharp strain like wind through alleys roar. 
 
 Ye channels, wandering through the spacious street, 
 In hollow murmurs roll the dirt nlong ; 
 
 With inundations wet the sabled feet, 
 
 Whilst gouts responsive join th' elegiac song. 
 
 Ye damsels fair, whose silver voices shrill 
 
 Sound through meandering folds of Echo's horn, 
 
 Let the sweet cry of liberty be still ; 
 
 No more let smokine cakes awake the morn.
 
 70 ChattcrioJi s Poems. 
 
 O Winter! put away thy snowy pride; 
 
 O Spring ! neglect the cowsUp and the bell ; 
 O Summer! throw thy pears and plums aside; 
 
 O Autumn ! bid the grape with poison swell. 
 
 The pension'd muse of Johnson is no more ! 
 
 Drown'd in a butt of wine his genius lies. 
 Earth, Ocean, Heav'n, the wondrous loss deplore, 
 
 The dregs of nature with her glory dies. 
 
 What iron stoic can suppress the tear ! 
 
 What sour reviewer read with vacant eye ! 
 What bard but decks his literary bier! 
 
 Alas ! I cannot sing — I howl— I cry. 
 
 THE COPERNICAN SYSTEM. 
 
 The sun, revolving on his axis, turns, 
 And with creative fire intensely burns : 
 Impell'd the forcive air, our earth supreme. 
 Rolls with the planets round the solar gleam. 
 First Mercury completes his transient year. 
 Glowing, refulgent, with reflected glare : 
 Bright Venus occupies a wider way. 
 The early harbinger of night and day: 
 More distant still, our globe terraqueous turns, 
 Nor chills intense, nor fiercely heated burns : 
 Around her rolls the lunar orb of light. 
 Trailing her silver glories through the night.
 
 The Copcrnkan System. 7"^ 
 
 On the earth's orbit sec the various signs 
 Mark where the sun, our year completing, shines: 
 First the bright Ram his languid ray improves; 
 Next, glaring watery, through the Bull he moves; 
 The amorous Twins admit his genial ray; 
 Now burning, through the Crab he takes his way; 
 The Lion, flaming, bears the solar power; 
 The Virgin faints beneath the sultry shower. 
 
 Now the just Balance weighs his equal force; 
 The slimy Serpent swelters in his course ; 
 The sabled Archer clouds his languid face ; 
 The Goat, with tempests, urges on his race: 
 Now in the water his faint beams appear, 
 And the cold Fishes end the circling year. 
 Beyond our globe the sanguine Mars displays 
 A strong reflection of primeval rays ; 
 Next belted Jupiter far distant gleams. 
 Scarcely enlighten'd with the solar beams: 
 With four unfix'd receptacles of light 
 He towers majestic through the spacious height; 
 But farther yet the tardy Saturn lags, 
 And five attendant luminaries drags ; 
 Investing with a double ring his pace, 
 He circles through immensity of space. 
 
 These are thy wondi'ous works, First Source of Good! 
 Now more admired in being understood. 
 
 E
 
 *J^ Chattcrtoii s Poems. 
 
 THE CONSULIAD. 
 
 A MOCK HEROIC POEM. 
 
 Of roaring constables and battles dire, 
 
 Of geese uneaten, Muse, a.vake the lyre! 
 
 Where Campbell's chimneys overlook the square, 
 
 And Newton's future prospects hang in air; 
 
 Where counsellors dispute, and cockers match, 
 
 And Caledonian earls in concert scratch, — • 
 
 A group of heroes occupied the round, 
 
 Long in the rolls of infamy renown'd. 
 
 Circling the table, all in silence sat. 
 
 Now tearing bloody lean, now champing fat; 
 
 Now picking ortolans and chickens, slain 
 
 To form the whimsies of an a-la-reiiie: 
 
 Now storming castles of the newest taste, 
 
 And granting articles to forts of paste; 
 
 Now swallowing bitter draughts of Prussian beer; 
 
 Now sucking tallow of salubrious deer. 
 
 The god of cabinets and senates saw 
 
 His sons, like asses, to one centre draw. 
 
 Inflated Discord heard, and left her cell, 
 With all the horrors of her native hell. 
 She on the soaring wings of genius fled. 
 And waved the pen of Junius round her head. 
 Beneath the table, vail'd from sight, she sprung, 
 And sat astride on noisy Twitcher's tongue. 
 Twitcher, superior to the venal pack 
 Of Bloomsbury's notorious monarch, Jack ; —
 
 The Considiad. 7.3 
 
 Twitcher, a rotten branch of mighty stock, 
 Whose interest winds his conscience as his clock; 
 Whose attributes detestable have long 
 Been evident, and infamous in song. 
 A toast's demanded ! Madoc swift arose, 
 Pactolian gravy trickling down his clothes : 
 His sanguine fork a murder'd pigeon prcss'd, 
 His knife with deep incision sought the breast. 
 Upon his lips the quivering accents hung, 
 And too much expedition chain'd his tongue; 
 When thus he sputter'd : " All the glasses liU, 
 And toast the great Pendragon of the hill: 
 Mab-Uthcr Ovvein, a long train of kings, 
 From whom the royal blood of Madoc springs. 
 Madoc, undoubtedly of Arthur's race. 
 You see the mighty monarch in his face ; 
 Madoc, in bagnios and in courts adored, 
 Demands this proper homage of the board." 
 
 "Monarchs!" said Twitcher, setting down his 
 
 beer. 
 His muscles wreathing a contemptuous sneer; 
 " Monarchs of molehills, oyster-beds, a rock — 
 These are the grafters of your royal stock ! 
 My pony. Scrub, can sires more valiant trace — " 
 The mangled pigeon thunders on his face ; 
 His opening mouth the melted butter fills. 
 And, dropping from his nose and chin, distils. 
 Furious he started, rage his bosom warms ; 
 Loud as his Lordship's morning dun he storms. 
 " Thou vulgar imitator of the great, 
 Grown wanton with the excrements of state; 
 This to thy head notorious Twitcher sends." 
 His shadow body to the table bends:
 
 ■■74 Chaitertoii's Pocjns. 
 
 His training arm uprears a loin of veal, 
 In these degenerate days for three a meal; 
 In ancient times, as various writers say, 
 An alderman or priest ate three a day. 
 With godlike strength the grinning Twitcher plies 
 His stretching muscles, and the mountain flies. 
 Swift as a cloud that shadows o'er the plain, 
 It flew, and scatter'd drops of oily rain. 
 In opposition to extended knives. 
 On royal Madoc's spreading chest it drives; 
 Senseless he falls upon the sandy ground, 
 Press'd with the steamy load that oozed around. 
 And now Confusion spread her ghastly plume, 
 And Faction separates the noisy room. 
 Balluntun, exercised in every vice 
 That opens to a courtier's paradise, 
 With Dyson trammell'd, scruples not to draw 
 Injustice up the rocky hill of law : 
 From whose humanity the laurels sprung 
 Which will in Gcorge's-Fields be ever young. 
 ' The vile Balluntun, starting from his chair, 
 To Fortune thus address'd his private prayer : 
 " Goddess of Fate's rotundity, assist 
 With thought-wing'd victory my untried fist: 
 If I the grinning Twitcher overturn. 
 Six Russian frigates at thy shrine shall burn; 
 Nine rioters shall bleed beneath thy feet. 
 And hanging cutters decorate each street." 
 The Goddess smiled, or rather smoothed her frown, 
 And shook the tripple feathers of her crown ; 
 Instill'd a private pension in his soul. 
 With rage inspired, he seized a Gallic roll : 
 His bursting arm the missive weapon threw, — 
 High o'er his rival's head it whistling flew;
 
 The ConsiiUad. 75 
 
 Curraras, for his Jewish soul renown'cl, 
 
 Received it on his ear, and kiss'd the ground. 
 
 Curraras, versed in every little art, 
 
 To play the minister's or felon's part, 
 
 Grown hoary in the villanies of state, 
 
 A title made him infamously great; 
 
 A slave to venal slaves — a tool to tools, 
 
 The representative to knaves and fools. 
 
 But see! Commercial Bristol's genius sit, 
 
 Her shield a turtle-shell, her lance a spit : 
 
 See, whilst her nodding aldermen are spread. 
 
 In all the branching honours of the head; — 
 
 Curraras, ever faithful to the cause, 
 
 With beef and ven'son their attention draws : 
 
 They drink, they eat, then sign the mean address;— 
 
 Say, could their humble gratitudes do less? 
 
 By disappointment vcx'd, Balluntun Hies, 
 
 Red lightnings Hashing in his dancing eyes. 
 
 Firm as his virtue, mighty Twitchcr stands, 
 
 And elevates for furious fight his hands : 
 
 One pointed fist his shadovv'd corpse defends, 
 
 The other on Balluntun's eyes descends : 
 
 A darlding, shaking light his optics view, 
 
 Circled with livid tinges red and blue. 
 
 Now fired with anguish and inflamed by pride, 
 
 He thunders on his adversary's side, 
 
 With pattering blows prolongs th' unequal fight. 
 
 Twitcher retreats before the man of might. 
 
 But Fortune (or some higher Power, or god) 
 
 Oblique extended forth a sable rod : 
 
 As Twitcher retrograde maintain'd the fray, 
 
 The harden'd serpent intercepts his way : 
 
 He fell, and falling with a lordly air, 
 
 Crush'd into atoms the judicial chair.
 
 7 6 Chaitcrton's Poems. 
 
 Curraras, for his Jewish soul renown'd, 
 Arose; but, deafen'd with a singing sound, 
 A cloud of discontent o'erspread his brows ; 
 Revenge in every bloody feature glows. 
 Around his head a roasted gander whirls^ 
 Dropping Manilla sauces on his curls ; 
 Swift to the vile Balluntun's face it flies; 
 The burning pepper sparkles in his eyes; 
 His India waistcoat, reeking with the oil, 
 Glows brighter red, the glory of the spoil. 
 
 The fight is general : fowl repulses fowl ; 
 The victors thunder and the vanquish'd howl. 
 Stars, garters, all the implements of show, 
 That deck'd the powers above, disgraced below 
 Nor swords, nor mightier weapons did they draw, 
 For all were well acquainted with the law- 
 Let Drap— r, to improve his diction, fight ; 
 Our heroes, like Lord George, could scold and 
 
 write. 
 Gog Magog, early of the jockey club 
 Empty as C — br — -ke's oratorial tub, 
 A rusty link of ministerial chain, 
 A living glory of the present reign. 
 Versed in the arts of ammunition bread, — 
 He waved a red wheat manchet round his head: 
 David-ap-Ho\vel, furious, wild, and young. 
 From the same line as royal Madoc sprung, 
 Occurr'd, the object of his bursting ire. 
 And on his nose received the weapon dire : 
 A double river of congealing blood 
 O'erflows his garter with a purple flood. 
 Mad as a bull by daring mastiffs tore. 
 When ladies scream and greasy butchers roar ;
 
 The Consiiliad. 77 
 
 Mad as B — rg— e, when groping through the 
 
 park, 
 He kiss'd his own dear lady in the dark; 
 The hncal representative of kings, 
 A carving weapon seized, and up he springs; 
 A weapon long in cruel murders stain'd, 
 For mangling captive carcases ordain'd. 
 But Fortune, Providence, or what you will,. 
 To lay the rising scenes of horror still. 
 In Fero's person seized a shining pot, 
 Where bubbled scrips and contracts flaming hot, 
 In the fierce Cambrian's breeches drains it dry— 
 The chapel totters with the shrieking cry, 
 Loud as the mob's reiterated yell 
 When Sav/ny rose and mighty Chatham fell. 
 
 Flaccus, the glory of a masquerade. 
 Whose every action is of trifles made. 
 At Grafton's well-stored table ever found, 
 Like Grafton, too, for every vice renown'd : — 
 Grafton, to whose immortal sense we owe 
 The blood which will from civil discord flow ; 
 Who swells each grievance, lengthens every tax, 
 Blind to the ripening vengeance of the axe : — 
 Flaccus, the youthful, degagce, and gay, 
 With eye of pity saw the dreary fray; 
 Amidst the greasy horrors of the fight 
 He trembled for his suit of virgin white. 
 Fond of his eloquence and easy flow 
 Of talk verbose, whose meaning none can know, 
 He mounts the table, but, through eager haste, 
 His foot upon a smoking court-pie placed; 
 The burning liquid penetrates his shoe — 
 Swift from the rostrum the declaimer flew ;
 
 78 Chatterion^s Poems. 
 
 But learnedly heroic, he disdains 
 To spoil his pretty countenance with strains. 
 Remounted on the table, now he stands, 
 Waves his high powder'd-head and ruffled hands : 
 "Friends ! let this clang of hostile fury cease; 
 111 it becomes the plenipos of peace: 
 Shall olios, for internal battle dress'd. 
 Like bullets outward perforate the breast? 
 Shall javelin bottles blood ethereal spill? 
 Shall luscious turtle without surfeit kill?" 
 More had he said, when from Doglostock flung, 
 A custard pudding trembled on his tongue; 
 And, ah ! misfortunes seldom come alone, 
 Great Twitcher, rising, seized a polish'd bone; 
 Upon his breast the oily weapon clangs — 
 Headlong he falls, propell'd by thickening bangs. 
 The prince of trimmers, for his magic famed, — 
 Ouarlendorgongos by infernals named, 
 By mortals Alavat in common styled — 
 Nursed in a furnace, Nox and Neptune's child, 
 Bursting with rage, a weighty bottle caught, 
 With crimson blood and weighty spirits fraught; 
 To Doxo's head the gurgling Avoe he sends — 
 Doxo made mighty in his mighty friends. 
 Upon his front the stubborn vessel sounds. 
 Back from his harder front the bottle bounds : 
 He fell. The royal Madoc rising up. 
 Reposed him weary on his painful crup; 
 The head of Doxo, first projecting down. 
 Thunders upon the kingly Cambrian's crown : 
 The sanguine tumour swells; again he falls; 
 On his broad chest the bulky Doxo sprawls. 
 Tyro the sage, the sensible, the strong. 
 As yet unnoticed in the muse-taught song; —
 
 The Consuliad. 79 
 
 Tyro, for necromancy far renown'd, 
 A greater adept than Agrlppa found ; 
 Oft as his phantom reasons intervened, 
 De Viris pension'd, the defaulter scrccn'd; 
 Another C — rt — t remains in CI— ; 
 In Fl — the — r fifty Jefferies appear; — 
 Tyro stood neuter, till the champions, tired, 
 In languid attitudes a truce desired. 
 Long was the bloody fight : confusion dire 
 Has hid some circumstances from the lyre ; 
 Suffice it, that each hero kiss'd the ground, 
 Tyro excepted, for old laws renown'd. 
 Who, stretching his authoritative hand, 
 Loudly thus issued forth his dread command : 
 "Peace, wrangling senators, and placemen, peace; 
 In the King's name, let hostile vengeance cease ! " 
 Aghast the champions hear the furious sound. 
 The fallen unmolested leave the ground. 
 " What fury, nobles, occupies your breast .? 
 What, patriot spirits, has your minds possess'd? 
 Nor honorary gifts nor pensions please. 
 Say, are you Covent-Garden patentees 1 
 How 1 wist you not what ancient sages said, — 
 " The council quarrels and the poor have bread. 
 See this court-pie with twenty thousand drcss'd; 
 Be every thought of enmity at rest : 
 Divide it, and be friends again," he said. 
 The council god return'd, and Discord fled.
 
 8o Chattaioji's Poems. 
 
 ACROSTIC ON MISS CLARKE. 
 
 Seraphic virgins of the tuneful choir, 
 
 Assist me to prepare the sounding lyre ! 
 
 Like her I sing — soft, sensible, and fair — 
 
 Let the smooth numbers warble in the air. 
 
 Ye prudes, coquettes, and all the misled throng, 
 
 Can Beauty, Virtue, Sense, demand the song? 
 
 Look then on Clarke, and see them all unite — 
 
 A beauteous pattern to the always-right. 
 
 Rest here, my Muse, nor soar above thy sphere — 
 
 Kings might pay adoration to the fair. 
 
 Enchanting, full of joy, peerless in face and air! 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 March 6, 1768. 
 
 Dear Friend, — I have received both your favours. 
 The Muse alone must tell my joy. 
 
 O'erwhelm'd with pleasure at the joyful news, 
 I strung the chorded shell, and woke the Muse. 
 Begin, O servant of the Sacred Nine, 
 And echo joy through every nervous line; 
 Bring down th' ethereal choir to aid the song; 
 Let boundless raptures smoothly glide along. 
 My Baker's well! Oh words of sweet delight! 
 , Now, now, my Muse, soar up th' Olympic height. 
 What wondrous numbers can the goddess find, 
 To paint th' ecstatic raptures of my mind? 
 I leave it to a goddess more divine. 
 The beauteous Hoyland shall employ my line. »
 
 TO MISS HOYLAND.* 
 
 Sweet are thy charming smiles, my lovely maid, 
 Sweet as the flowers in bloom of spring array'd ; 
 Those charming smiles thy beauteous face adorn, 
 As May's white blossoms gaily deck the thorn. 
 
 * From a MS. of Chatterton's in the British Museum.
 
 82 Chatterton's Poems. 
 
 Then why, when mild good-nature basking lies 
 
 'Midst the soft radiance of thy melting eyes — 
 
 When my fond tongue would strive thy heart to move, 
 
 And tune its tones to every note of love — 
 
 Why do those smiles their native soil disown, 
 
 And (changed their movements) kill me in a frown ? 
 
 Yet, is it true, or is it dark despair 
 
 That fears you're cruel whilst it owns you fair? 
 
 Oh speak, dear Hoyland! speak my certain fate, 
 
 Thy love enrapturing or thy constant hate. 
 
 If death's dire sentence hangs upon thy tongue, 
 
 E'en death were better than suspense so long. 
 
 -^-9->^^^!<r<-e- 
 
 TO THE BEAUTEOUS MISS HOYLAND. 
 
 Far distant from Britannia's lofty isle. 
 
 What shall I find to make the genius smile? 
 
 The bubbling fountains lose the power to please. 
 
 The rocky cataracts, the shady trees, 
 
 The juicy fruitage of enchanting hue, 
 
 Whose luscious virtues England never knew; 
 
 The variegated daughters of the land. 
 
 Whose numbers Flora strews with bounteous hand. 
 
 The verdant vesture of the smiling fields, 
 
 All the rich pleasures Nature's storehouse yields, 
 
 Have all their powers to wake the chorded string; 
 
 But still they're subjects that the Muse can sing. 
 
 Hoyland, more beauteous than the God of Day, 
 
 Her name can quicken and awake the lay,
 
 Ode to Miss Hjyland. 83, 
 
 Rouse the soft Muse from indolence and ease, 
 
 To live, to love, and rouse her powers to please. 
 
 In vain would Phoebus, did not Hoyland rise: 
 
 'Tis her bright eyes that gilds th'j Eastern skies : 
 
 'Tis she alone deprives us of ihc light ; 
 
 And when she slumbers, then indeed 'tis night. 
 
 To tell the separate beauties of her face 
 
 Would stretch eternity's remotest space, 
 
 And want a more than man to pen the line. 
 
 I rest — let this suffice, dear Hoyland's all divine. 
 
 -.-!*^*«"*-S — 
 
 ODE TO MISS HOYLAND. 
 
 Amidst the wild and dreary dells, 
 The distant-echo-giving bells, 
 
 The bending mountain's head — 
 Whilst Evening, moving through the sky, 
 Over the object and the eye 
 
 Her pitchy robes dol'i spread — 
 
 There, gently moving through the vale, 
 Bending before the blustering gale, 
 
 Fell apparitions glide; 
 Whilst roaring rivers echo round, 
 The drear reverberating sound 
 
 Runs through the mountain side. 
 
 Then steal I softly to the grove. 
 And singing of the nymph I love, 
 Sigh out my sad complaint.
 
 84 Chattcrtoii s Poems. 
 
 To paint the tortures of my mind, 
 Where can the Muses numbers find? 
 Ah ! numbers are too faint. 
 
 Ah ! Hoyland, empress of my heart, 
 When will thy breast admit the dart, 
 
 And own a mutual flame? 
 When, wandering in the myrtle groves, 
 Shall mutual pleasures seal our loves — 
 
 Pleasures without a name? 
 
 Thou greatest beauty of the sex, 
 When will the little god perplex 
 
 The mansions of thy breast? 
 When wilt thou own a flame as pure 
 As that seraphic souls endure. 
 
 And make thy Baker blest? 
 
 Oh haste to give my passion ease, 
 And bid the perturbation cease 
 
 That harrows up my soul ! 
 The joy such happiness to find, 
 Would make the functions of my mind 
 
 In peace and love to roll. 
 
 ACROSTIC ON MISS HOYLAND. 
 
 Enchanting is the mighty power of love; 
 Life stript of amorous joys would irksome prove; 
 E'en Heaven's great Thunderer wore the easy chain, 
 And over all the world Love keeps his reign.
 
 To Miss Hoyland. 85 
 
 No human heart can bear the piercing blade, 
 
 Or I than others am more tender made. 
 
 Right through my heart a burning arrow drove, 
 
 Hoyland's bright eyes were made the bows of Love. 
 
 O torture inexpressibly severe ! 
 
 You are the pleasing author of my care. 
 
 Look down, fair angel, on a swain distrcss'd, 
 
 A gracious smile from you would make me bless'd. 
 
 Nothing but that bless'd favour stills my grief — 
 
 Death, that denied, will quickly give relief. 
 
 TO MISS HOYLAND. 
 
 Go, gentle Muse, and to my fair one say, 
 
 My ardent passion mocks the feeble lay ; 
 
 That Love's pure flame my panting breast inspires, 
 
 And Friendship warms me with her chaster fires. 
 
 Yes, more my fond esteem, my matchless love. 
 
 Than the soft turtle's cooing in the grove; 
 
 More than the lark delights to mount the sky, 
 
 Then sinking on the greensward soft to lie; 
 
 More than the bird of eve, at close of day. 
 
 To pour in solemn solitude her lay ; 
 
 More than grave Camplin,* with his deep-toned note, 
 
 To mouth the sacred service got by rote ; 
 
 More than sage Catcottf does his storm of rain. 
 
 Sprung from the abyss of his eccentric brain ; 
 
 Or than his wild-antique and sputtering brother 
 
 Loves in his ale-house chair to drink and pother ; 
 
 * John Camplin, M.A,, Preceptor of Bristol. 
 
 t The Rev. Mr. Catcott wrote a book on the Deluge.
 
 86 CJiaUertou'' s Poems. 
 
 More than soft Lewis,* that sweet pretty thing, 
 Loves in the pulpit to display his ring; 
 More than frail mortals love a brother sinner, 
 And more than Bristol Aldermen their dinner, 
 (When full four pounds of the well-fatten'd haunch 
 In twenty mouthfuls fill the greedy paunch.) 
 
 If these true strains can thy dear bosom move, 
 Let thy soft blushes speak a mutual love : 
 But if thy purpose settles in disdain. 
 Speak my dread fate, and bless thy favourite swain. 
 
 TO MISS HOYLAND. 
 
 Once more the Muse to beauteous Iloyland sings ;- 
 Her grateful tribute of harsh numbers brings 
 To Hoyland! Nature's richest, sweetest store, 
 She made an Hoyland, and can make no more. 
 Nor all the beauties of the world's vast round 
 United, will as sweet as her be found. 
 Description sickens to rehearse her praise — 
 Her worth alone will deify my days. 
 Enchanting creature ! charms so great as thine 
 May all the beau'ies of the day outshine. 
 Thy eyes to every gazer send a dart, 
 Thy taking graces captivate the heart. 
 Oh for a Muse that shall ascend the skies. 
 And like the subject of the cpode rise, 
 
 * Mr. Lewis was a dissenting preacher in CristoL
 
 To Miss Hoyland. 87 
 
 To sing the sparkling eye, the portly grace, 
 The thousand beauties that adorn the face 
 Of my seraphic maid, whose beauteous charms 
 Might court the world to rush at once to arms; 
 Whilst the fair goddess, native of the skies, 
 Shall sit above, and be the victor's prize. 
 Oh now, whilst yet I sound the tuneful lyre, 
 I feel the thrilling joy her hands inspire; 
 When the soft, tender touch awakes my blood, 
 And rolls my passions with the purple flood. 
 My pulse beats high; my throbbing breast's on fire 
 In sad variety of wild desire. 
 O Hoyland ! heavenly goddess ! angel — saint ! 
 Words are to weak thy mighty worth to paint; 
 Thou best, completes! work that Nature made, 
 Thou art my substance and I am thy shade. 
 Possess'd of thee, I joyfully would go 
 Through the loud tempest and the depth of woe. 
 Fi"om thee alone my being I derive — 
 One beauteous smile from thee makes all my hopes 
 alive. 
 
 TO MISS HOYLAND. 
 
 Since short the busy scene of life will prove, 
 Let us, my Hoyland, learn to live and love; 
 To love with passions pure as morning light, 
 Whose saffron beams, unsullied by the night. 
 With rosy mantles do the heavens streak, 
 Faint imitators of my Hoyland's cheek
 
 88 Chattertoii s Poems. 
 
 The joys of Nature in her ruin'd state 
 Have httle pleasure, though the pains are great: 
 Virtue and Love, when sacred bands unite, 
 'Tis then that Nature leads to true delight. 
 Oft as I wander through the myrtle grove. 
 Bearing the beauteous burden of my love, 
 A secret terror, lest I should offend 
 The charming maid on whom my joys depend, 
 Informs my soul, that virtuous minds alone 
 Can give a pleasure, to the vile unknown. 
 But when the body charming, and the mind 
 To every virtuous Christian act inclined, 
 Meet in one person, maid and angel join, 
 Who must it be, but Hoyland the divine? 
 What worth intrinsic will that man possess 
 Whom the dear charmer condescends to bless? 
 Swift will the minutes roll, the flying hours. 
 And blessings overtake the pair by showers ; 
 Each moment will improve upon the past, 
 And every day be better than the last. 
 Love means an unadulterated flame, 
 Though lust too oft usurps the sacred name ; — 
 Such passion as in Hoyland's breast can move, 
 'Tis that alone deserves the name of Love. 
 Oh, were my merit great enough to find 
 A favour'd station in my Hoyland's mind. 
 Then would my happiness be quite complete, 
 And all revolving joys as in a centre meet
 
 - Jt 
 
 TO MISS HOYLAND. 
 
 Tell me, God of soft desires, 
 Little Cupid, wanton boy. 
 
 How thou kindlest up thy fires. 
 Giving pleasing pain and joy?
 
 9° Chatterion's Poems. 
 
 Hoyland's beauty is thy bow, 
 Striking glances are thy darts: 
 
 Making conquests never slow, 
 Ever gaining conquer'd hearts. 
 
 Heaven is seated in her smile, 
 Juno 's in her portly air ; • 
 
 Not Britannia's favourite isle 
 Can produce a nymph so fair. 
 
 In a desert vast and drear, 
 Where disorder springs around, 
 
 If the lovely fair is there, 
 'Tis a pleasure-giving ground. 
 
 O my Hoyland ! blest with thee, 
 I 'd the raging storm defy : 
 
 In thy smiles I live, am free ; 
 When thou frownest I must die. 
 
 TO MISS HOYLAND. 
 
 WITH A PRESENT. 
 
 Accept, fair nymph, this token of my love, 
 Nor look disdainful on the prostrate swain : 
 
 By every sacred oath, I'll constant prove. 
 And act as worthy/cr to wear your chain.
 
 . To Miss Hoyla7id. pt 
 
 Not with more constant ardour shall the sun 
 Chase the faint shadows of the night away ; 
 
 Nor shall he on his course more constant run, 
 And cheer the universe with coming day, 
 
 Than I, in pleasing chains of conquest bound, 
 Adore the charming author of my smart ; — 
 
 For ever will I thy sweet charms resound, 
 And paint the fair possessor of my heart. 
 
 TO MISS HOYLAND. 
 
 Count all the flowers that deck the meadow's side, 
 When Flora flourishes in new-born pride ; 
 Count all the sparkling orbits in the sky; 
 Count all the birds that through the ether fly ; 
 Count all the foliage of the lofty trees. 
 That fly before the bleak autumnal breeze ; 
 Count all the dewy blades of verdant grass ; 
 Count all the drops of rain that softly pass 
 Through the blue ether or tempestuous roar ; 
 Count all the sands upon the breaking shore ; 
 Count all the minutes since the world besran ; 
 Count all the troubles of the life of man ; 
 
 Count all the torments of the d d in hell, — 
 
 More are the beauteous charms that make my nymph 
 excel. 
 
 F
 
 92 Chatterton's Poems. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO MISS C AM, OF BRISTOL. 
 
 As Spring now approaches with all his gay train, 
 And scatters his beauties around the gi-een plain, 
 Come, then, my dear charmer, all scruples remove, 
 Accept of my passion, allow me to love. 
 
 Without the soft transports which love must inspire, 
 Without the sweet torment of fear and desire, 
 Our thoughts and ideas are never refined, 
 And nothing but winter can reign in the mind. 
 
 But love is the blossom, the spring of the soul ; 
 The frosts of our judgments may check, not control; 
 In spite of each hindrance, the spring will return, 
 And nature with transports refining will burn. 
 
 This passion celestial by Heaven was design'd 
 The only fix'd means of improving the mind ; 
 When it beams on the senses, they quickly display 
 How great and prolific, how pleasing the ray. 
 
 Then, come, my dear charmer, since love is a flame 
 Which polishes nature and angels your frame, 
 Permit the soft passion to rise in your breast, — 
 I leave your good-nature to grant me the rest. 
 
 Shall the beautiful flowerets all blossom around, 
 Shall Flora's gay mantle enamel the ground. 
 Shall the red blushing blossom be seen on the tree, 
 Without the least pleasure or rapture for me.''
 
 Frao-inent. 93 
 
 'i> 
 
 And yet, if my charmer should frown when I sing, 
 Ah ! what are the beauties, the glories of spring? 
 The flowers will be faded, all happiness fly, 
 And clouds vail the azure of every bright sky. 
 
 — s--».»^^«r<-E — 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 Interest, thou universal God of men ! 
 Wait on the couplet and reprove the pen ; 
 If aught unwelcome to thy ears shall rise, 
 Hold jails and famine to the poet's eyes ; 
 Bid satire sheath her sharp avenging steel, 
 And lose a number rather than a meal. 
 Nay, prithee, honour, do not make us mad. 
 When I am hungry something must be had. 
 Can honest consciousness of doing right 
 Provide a dinner or a bed at night? 
 What though Astrea decks my soul in gold. 
 My mortal lumber trembles with the cold ; 
 Then, cursed tormentor of my peace, begone ! 
 Flattery 's a cloak, and I will put it on. 
 
 In a low cottage shaking with the wind, 
 A door in front, a span of light behind, 
 Tervono's lungs their mystic play began. 
 And nature in the infant mark'd the man. 
 Six times the youth of morn, the golden sun, 
 Through the twelve stages of his course had run, 
 Tervono rose, the merchant of the plain, 
 His soul was traffic, his elysium gain j
 
 94 Chattertoifs Poems. 
 
 The ragged chapman found his word a law, 
 And lost in barter every favourite taw. 
 Through various scenes Tervono still ascends. 
 And still is making, still forgetting friends ; 
 Full of this maxim, often heard in trade. 
 Friendship with none but equals should be made. 
 His soul is all the merchant. None can find 
 The shadow of a virtue in his mind. 
 Nor are his vices reason misapplied; 
 Mean as his spirit, sneaking as his pride. 
 At city dinner or a turtle feast 
 As expeditious as a hungry priest, 
 No foe to Bacchanalian brutal rites, 
 In vile confusion dozing off the nights. 
 
 Tervono would be flatter'd ; shall I then 
 In stigmatizing satire shake the pen? 
 Muse, for his brow the laurel wreath prepare, 
 Though soon 'twill wither when 'tis planted there. 
 Come, Panegyric ; Adulation, haste. 
 And sing this wonder of mercantile taste; 
 And whilst his virtue rises in my lines, 
 The patron 's happy and the poet dines. 
 Some, philosophically cased in steel. 
 Can neither poverty nor hunger feel ; 
 But that is not my case : the Muses know 
 What water-gruel stuff from Phoebus flow. 
 Then if the rage of satire seize my brain. 
 May none but brother poets meet the strain; 
 May bulky aldermen nor vicars rise, 
 Hung in terrorem to their brothers' eyes. 
 When lost in trance by Gospel or by law, 
 In to their inward room the senses draw; 
 There, as they snore in consultation deep, 
 Are by the vulgar reckon'd fast asleep.
 
 The Wojnan of Spirit. 95 
 
 THE WOMAN OF SPIRIT. 
 
 A BURLETTA. I770. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 
 
 Distort, Mr. Bannister. 
 
 Councillor Latitat, .... Mr. Reinhold. 
 
 Endorsf Master Cheney. 
 
 Lady Tempest, Mrs. Thompson. 
 
 Act I. — Scene I. 
 
 LADY TEMPEST and LATITAT. 
 
 LATITAT. 
 
 I tell you, Lady Tempest — 
 
 LADY TEMPEST. 
 
 And I tell you, Mr. Latitat, it shall not be. I'll have 
 no Society of Antiquaries meet here. None but the hon- 
 ourable Members of the Coterie shall assemble here — 
 you shall know. 
 
 LATITAT. 
 
 Suspend your rage, Lady Tempest, and let me open my 
 brief. Have you not this day (moved by the instigation 
 of the devil, and not having the fear of God before your 
 eyes) wilfully, and wittingly, and maliciously, driven all 
 my friends out of my house t Was it done like a Woman 
 of Quality?
 
 9 6 ChatiertorCs Poems. 
 
 LADY TEMPEST. 
 
 It was done like a Woman of Spirit — a character shall 
 ever be my task to maintain. 
 
 Air. 
 
 Away with your maxims and dull formal rules, 
 The shackles of pleasure and trammels of fools : 
 For Wisdom and Prudence, I care not a straw ; 
 I'll act as I please, for my will is iiiy law. 
 
 LATITAT. 
 
 But upon my soul, Madam, I have one more consider- 
 ation which should especially move you to bridle your 
 passion; for it spoils your face. When you knocked 
 down Lord Rust with the bust of Marcus Aurelius, you 
 looked the very picture of the Alecto last taken out of the 
 Herculaneum. 
 
 Air. 
 
 Passion, worse than age, will plough 
 Furrows on the frowning brow : 
 Rage and passion will disgrace 
 Every beauty of the face ; 
 Whilst good-nature will supply 
 Beauties which can never die. 
 
 LADY TEMPEST. 
 
 Mr. Latitat, I won't be abused. Did I for this conde- 
 scend to forget any quality and marry such a tautology 
 of nothing ? I will not be abused.
 
 The Woman of Spirit. 97 
 
 Scene. 
 DISTORT, LATITAT, LADY TEMPEST. 
 
 DISTORT. 
 
 Pray, Madam, what has enraged you? May I have the 
 honour of knowing? 
 
 LATITAT, 
 
 Mr. Distort shall be our referee. 
 
 LADY TEMPEST. 
 That is, if I please, sir. 
 
 LATITAT. 
 
 Pray, my Lady, let me state the case, and you may 
 afterwards make a reply. You must know, sir 
 
 LADY TEMPEST. 
 
 Yes, sir, you must know, this morning Mr. Latitat had 
 invited all his antiquated friends. Lord Rust, Horatio 
 Trefoil, Col. Tragedus, Professor Vase, and Counterfeit, 
 the Jew, to sit upon a brass halfpenny, which, being a 
 little worn, they agreed, ne^n. con., to be an Otho. 
 
 LATITAT. 
 
 And it is further necessary to be known that, while we 
 were all warm in debate upon the premises, my Lady 
 made a forcible entry into the parlour, and seizing an an- 
 tique bust of Marcus AureHus, of maUce prepense and 
 aforethought, did, with three blows of the said bust, 
 knock down Anthony Viscount Rust, and —
 
 pS ' Chatterton^s Poems. 
 
 LADY TEMPEST. 
 
 And drove them all out of the house. 
 
 LATITAT. 
 And furthermore — 
 
 LADY TEMPEST. 
 
 Silence, Mr. Latitat, — I insist on the privilege of an 
 English wife. 
 
 LATITAT. 
 
 And moreover — 
 
 DISTORT. 
 
 Nay, Councillor, as I am your referee, I command 
 silence : pray, what do you lay your damages at ? 
 
 LATITAT. 
 
 My lady has in her cabinet a Jupiter Tonans, which, in 
 spite of all my endeavours to open her eyes, she persists 
 in calling an Indian Pagod, and upon condition of my re- 
 ceiving that, I drop 'the prosecution. 
 
 DISTORT. {^Aside to Lady. 
 
 'Tis a trifle. Madam, let him have it ; it may turn to 
 account. 
 
 LADY TEMPEST. 
 
 A very toy: he shall have it instantly, on condition 
 I have the use of my tongue. 
 
 Air. 
 
 What are all your favourite joys? 
 What are our pleasures ?
 
 A Burlesque Cajiiaia. 99 
 
 TO MISS CLARKE. 
 
 To sing of Clarke my Muse aspires —   
 
 A theme by charms made quite divine ; — 
 
 Ye tuneful Virgins, sound your lyres ; 
 Apollo, aid the feeble line. 
 
 If truth and virtue, wit and charms, 
 
 May for a fix'd attention call, 
 The darts of Love and wounding arms 
 
 The beauteous Clarke shall hold o'er all. 
 
 'Tis not the tincture of the skin, 
 The rosy lip, the charming eye ; 
 
 No, 'tis a greater power within 
 That bids the passion never die. 
 
 These Clarke possesses, and much more — 
 All beauty in her glances sport ; 
 
 She is the goddess all adore 
 In country, city, and at court. 
 
 A BURLESQUE CANTATA. 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 Mounted aloft in Bristol's narrow streets, 
 Where pride and luxury with meanness meets, 
 A sturdy collier press'd the empty sack, 
 A troop of thousands swarming on his back ;
 
 loo Chattertoiis Poems. 
 
 When sudden to his rapt ecstatic view- 
 Rose the brown beauties of his red-hair'd Sue. 
 Music spontaneous echoed from his tongue, 
 And thus the lover rather bawi'd than sung : 
 
 AIR. 
 
 Zaunds ! Prithee, pretty Zue, is it thee? 
 
 Odzookers, I mun have a kiss ! 
 A sweetheart should always be free, 
 
 I whope you wunt take it amiss. 
 
 Thy peepers are blacker than caul, 
 
 Thy carcase is sound as a sack, 
 Thy visage is whiter than ball — 
 
 Odzookers, I mun have a smack ! 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 The swain descending, in his raptured arms 
 Held fast the goddess, and despoiled her charms. 
 Whilst lock'd in Cupid's amorous embrace. 
 His jetty skinnis met her red bronzed face ; — 
 It seem'd the sun while labouring in eclipse; 
 And on her nose he stamp'd his sable lips, 
 Pleased ***** 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF THE KNIGHT. 
 
 The pleasing sweets of spring and summer past, 
 The falling leaf flies in the sultry blast. 
 The fields resign their spangling orbs of gold, 
 The wrinkled grass its silver joys unfold,
 
 The Romance of the Knight. loi 
 
 Mantling the spreading moor in heavenly white, 
 Meeting from every hill the ravish'd sight; 
 The yellow flag uprears its spotted head, 
 Hanging regardant o'er its watery bed. 
 The worthy knight ascends his foaming steed. 
 Of size uncommon, and no common breed ; 
 His sword of giant make hangs from his belt. 
 Whose piercing edge his daring foes had felt. 
 To seek for glory and renown he goes. 
 To scatter death aiTiong his trembling foes : 
 Unnerved by fear, they trembled at his stroke ; 
 So cutting blasts shake the tall mountain oak. 
 
 Down in a dark and solitary vale. 
 
 Where the curst screech-owl sings her fatal tale, 
 
 Where copse and brambles interwoven lie. 
 
 Where trees entwining arch the azure sky. 
 
 Thither the fate-mark'd champion bent his way, 
 
 By purling streams to lose the heat of day. 
 
 A sudden cry assaults his listening ear, — 
 
 His soul 's too noble to admit of fear. 
 
 The cry re-echoes; with his bounding steed 
 
 He gropes the way from whence the cries proceed. 
 
 The arching trees above obscured the light. 
 
 Here 'twas all evening, there eternal night. 
 
 And now the rustling leaves and strengthen'd cry 
 
 Bespeaks the cause of the confusion nigh ; 
 
 Through the thick brake the astonish'd champion sees 
 
 A weeping damsel bending on her knees : 
 
 A ruffian knight would force her to the ground. 
 
 But still some small resisting strength she found. 
 
 ******* 
 The champion thus : " Desist, discourteous knight. 
 
 Why dost thou shamefully misuse thy might.?"
 
 102 Chatterton's Poems. 
 
 With eye contemptuous thus the knight rephes ; 
 "Begone ! whoever dares my fury dies." 
 Down to the ground the champion's gauntlet flew — 
 "I dare thy fury, and I'll prove it too." 
 
 Like two fierce mountain boars enraged they fly. 
 
 The prancing steeds make echo rend the sky. 
 
 Like a fierce tempest is the bloody fight; 
 
 Dead from his lofty steed falls the proud ruffian knight. 
 
 The victor, sadly pleased, accosts the dame : 
 
 " I will convey you hence to whence you came." 
 
 With look of gratitude the fair replied : 
 
 " Content, I in your virtue may confide." 
 
 But, said the fair, as mournful she survey'd 
 
 The breathless corse upon the meadow, laid, 
 
 " May all thy sins from Heaven forgiveness find ! 
 
 May not thy body's crimes affect thy mind ! " 
 
 — S'^v^-wfjfe^-t-e— 
 
 AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE: 
 
 AS WROTEN BIE THE CODE PRIESTE THOMAS ROWLEIE,* 
 
 1464. 
 
 I. 
 
 In Virgyne the sweltrie sun gan sheene, 
 And hotte upon the mees did caste his raie ; 
 
 * Thomas Rowley, the author, was born at Norton Malreward, in Som- 
 ersetshire, educated ;it the Convent of St. Kenna, at Keynesham, and died 
 at Westbury, in Gloucestershire. — Chatterton.
 
 An Excelentc Balade of Charitie. 103 
 
 The apple rodded from its palie greene, 
 And the mole pcare did bende the leafy spraie ; 
 The peede chelandri sunge the livelong daie; 
 'Twas nowe the pride, the manhode of the yeare, 
 And eke the grounde was dighte in its mose defte aumere. 
 
 II. 
 The sun was glemeing in the midde of daie, 
 Deadde still the aire, and eke the welken blue, 
 When from the sea arist, in drear arraie, 
 A hepe of cloudes of sable, sullen hue. 
 The which full fast unto the woodlande drewe, 
 Hiltring attenes the sunnis fetyve face, 
 And the blacke tempeste swolne and gatherd up apace. 
 
 III. 
 Beneathe an holme, faste by a pathwaie side, 
 Which dyde unto Seyncte Godwine's Covent* lede, 
 A hapless pilgrim moneynge dyd abide, 
 Pore in his viewe, ungentle in his weede, 
 Longe bretful of the miseries of neede; 
 Where from the hail-stone coulde the aimer flie.? 
 He had no housen theere, ne anie covent nie. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Look in his glommed face, his sprighte there scanne ; 
 Howe woe-be-gone, how wither'd, forwynd, deade ! 
 Haste to thie church-glebe-house, asshrewed manne ! 
 
 * "Seyncte Godwine's Covent." It would have been cJiariiahle if the 
 author had not pointed at personal characters in this "Ballad of Charity." 
 The Abbott of St. Godwin's at the time of the writing of this was Ralph de 
 Bellomont, a great stickler for the Lancasterian family. Rowley was a Yorkist. 
 — Chatterton.
 
 I04 Chatterton' s Poems. 
 
 Haste to thie kiste, thie onlie dortoure bedde. 
 Cale, as the claie whiche will gie on thie hedde, 
 Is Charitie and Love aminge highe elves; 
 Knightis and barons live for pleasure and themselves.* 
 
 V. 
 
 The gatherd storme is rype ; the bigge drops falle ; 
 The forswat meadowes smethe, and drenche the 
 
 raine; 
 The comyng ghastness do the cattle pall, 
 And the full flockes are drivynge ore the plaine ; 
 Dashde from the cloudes the waters flott againe; 
 The welkin opes ; the yellow levynne flies ; 
 And the hot fierie smothe in the wide lowings dies. 
 
 VI. 
 Liste ! now the thunder's rattling clymmynge sound 
 Cheves slowlie on, and then embollen clangs, 
 Shakes the hie spyre, and losst, dispended, drown'd, 
 Still on the gallard eare of terroure hanges ; 
 The windes are up ; the lofty elmen swanges ; 
 Again the levynne and the thunder poures, 
 And the full cloudes are braste attenes in stonen showers. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Spurreynge his palfrie oere the watne plaine, 
 The Abbote of Seyncte Godwynes convente came ; 
 His chapournette was drented with the reine, 
 And his pencte gyrdle met with mickle shame ; 
 
 * Chatterton probably alluded to his own deserted situation, since, it is 
 said, he gave this ballad to the publisher of the Town and Country 
 Magazine only a month before his death. — Dr. Gregory.
 
 An Excelente Balade of Charitie. 105 
 
 He aynewarde tolde his bederoll* at the same ; 
 The storme encreasen, and he drew aside, 
 With the mist almes-craver neere to the hohne to bide. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 His cope was all of Lyncolne clothe so fyne, 
 With a gold button fasten'd neere his chynne ; 
 His autremete was edged with golden twynne, 
 And his shoone pyke a loverd's mighte have binne ; 
 Full well it shewn he thoughten coste no sinne : 
 The trammels of the palfrye pleasde his sighte, 
 For the horse-millanare his head with roses dighte. 
 
 IX. 
 
 "An almes, sir prieste !" the droppynge pilgrim saide, 
 "O ! let me waite within your covcnte dore, 
 Till the sunne sheneth hie above our heade, 
 And the loude tempeste of the aire is oer ; 
 Helpless and ould am I, alas ! and poor; 
 No house, ne friend, ne moneie in my pouche; 
 All yatte I calle my owne is this my silver crouche." 
 
 X. 
 
 " Varlet," replyd the Abbatte, "cease your dinne; 
 
 This is no season almes and prayers to give; 
 
 Mie porter never lets a faitour in ; 
 
 None touch mie rynge who not in honour live." 
 
 And now the sonne with the blacke cloudes did 
 
 stryve, 
 And shettynge on the grounde his glairie raie. 
 The Abbatte spurrdehis steede,andeftsoonesroaddeawaie. 
 
 * He told his beads backwards ; a figurative expression to signify curs- 
 ing. — Chatterton.
 
 io6 Chaltcriojis Poems. 
 
 XI. 
 Once moe the skie was blacke, the thounder rolde; 
 Faste rayneynge oer the plaine a prieste was seen ; 
 Ne dighte full proude, ne button'd up in golde; 
 His cope and jape were graie, and eke were clene ; 
 A Limitoure he was of order seene ; 
 And from the pathwaie side then turned hee, 
 Where the pore aimer laie binethe the holmen tree. 
 
 XII. 
 
 "An almes, sir priest ! " the droppynge pilgrim sayde, 
 " For sweete Seyncte Marie and your order sake." 
 The Limitoure then loosen'd his pouche threade, 
 And did thereoute a groate of silver take ; 
 The mister pilgrim dyd for halline shake. 
 " Here, take this silver, it male eathe thie care; 
 We are Goddes stewards all, nete of oure owne we bare. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " But ah ! unhailie pilgrim, lerne of me, 
 Scathe anie give a rentroUe to their Lorde. 
 Here, take my semecope, thou arte bare I see ; 
 'Tis thyne ; the Seynctes will give me rnie rewarde." 
 He left the pilgrim, and his waie aborde. 
 Virgynne and hallie Seyncte, who sitte yn gloure, 
 Or give the mittee will, or give the gode man power 1
 
 Fragment. 107 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 Far from the reach of critics and reviews, 
 Brush up thy pinions and ascend, my Muse ! 
 Of conversation sing an ample theme, 
 And drink the tea of Hehconian stream. 
 Hail, matchless linguist! prating Deha, haill 
 When scandal's best materials, hackney'd, fail, 
 Thy quick invention lends a quick supply, 
 And all thy talk is one continued lie. 
 Know, thou eternal babbler, that my song 
 Could show a line as venom'd as thy tongue. 
 In pity to thy sex I cease to write 
 Of London journeys and the marriage-night. 
 The conversation with which taverns ring 
 Descends below my satire's soaring sting. 
 Upon his elbow-throne great Maro sits, 
 Revered at Forster's by the would-be wits; 
 Deliberately the studied jest he breaks, 
 And long and loud the polish'd table shakes ; 
 Retail'd in every brothel-house in town. 
 Each dancing booby vends it as his own. 
 Upon the empty jelly-glass reclined, 
 The laughing Maro gathers up his wind ; 
 The tail-bud 'prentice rubs his hands and grins. 
 Ready to laugh before the tale begins : 
 To talk of freedom, politics, and Bute, 
 And knotty arguments in law confute, 
 I leave to blockheads, for such things design'd; 
 Be it my task divine to ease the mind. 
 
 " To-morrow," says a Church-of-England priest, 
 " Is of good St. Epiphany the feast. 
 
 G
 
 io8 Chatiertoiis Poems. 
 
 It nothing matters whether he or she, 
 But be all servants from their labour free." 
 The laugh begins with Maro, and goes round, 
 And the dry jest is very witty found ; 
 In every corner of the room are seen 
 Round altars, cover'd with eternal green. 
 Piled high with offerings to the Goddess Fame, 
 Which mortals, chronicles, and journals name; 
 Where, in strange jumble, flesh and spirit lie, 
 And illustration sees a jest-book nigh: 
 Anti-venereal medicine cheek-by-jowl 
 With Whitfield's famous physic for the soul ; 
 The patriot Wilkes's ever-famed essay, 
 With Bute and justice in the self-same lay : 
 Which of the two deserved (ye casuists tell) 
 The conflagrations of a hangman's hell? 
 
 The clock strikes eight; the taper dully shines; 
 Farewell, my Muse, nor think of further lines : 
 Nine leaves, and in two hours, or something odd, 
 Shut up the book, — it is enough, by G — d ! 
 
 28th Oct. 
 
 Sage Gloster's bishop sits supine between 
 His fiery floggers and a cure for spleen ; 
 The son of flame, enthusiastic Law, 
 Displays his bigot blade and thunders raw, 
 Unconscious of his neighbours, some vile plays, 
 Directing-posts to Beelzebub's highways,; 
 Fools are philosophers in Jones's line. 
 And, bound in gold and scarlet, Dodsleys shine ; 
 These are the various offerings Fame requires, 
 For ever rising to her shrines in spires;
 
 Fragment. 109 
 
 Hence all Avaro's politics are drain'd, 
 And Evelinia's general scandal's gain'd. 
 
 Where Satan's temple rears its lofty head, 
 And muddy torrents wash their shrinking bed ; 
 Where the stupendous sons of commerce meet, 
 Sometimes to scold indeed, but oft to eat; 
 Wliere frugal Cambria all her poultry gives, 
 And where the insatiate Messalina lives, 
 A mighty fabric opens to the sight, 
 With four large columns, five large windows dight; 
 With four small portals, — 'tis with much ado 
 A common-council lady can pass through: 
 Here Hare first teaches supple limbs to bend. 
 And faults of nature never fails to mend. 
 
 Here conversation takes a nobler flight, 
 For nature leads the theme, and all is right ; 
 The little god of love improves discourse. 
 And sage discretion finds his thunder hoarse. 
 About the flame the gilded trifles play. 
 Till, lost in forge unknown, they melt away; 
 And, cherishing the passion in the mind. 
 There each idea's brighten'd and refined. 
 
 Ye painted guardians of the lovely fair, 
 
 Who spread the saffron bloom and tinge the hair: 
 
 Whose deep invention first found out the art 
 
 Of making rapture glow in every part, 
 
 Of wounding by each varied attitude — 
 
 Sure 'twas a thought divinity endued! 
 •s % * * *
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 Hail, Resignation, hail ! ambiguous dame ! 
 Thou Parthian archer in the fight of fame, 
 When thou hast drawn the mystic vail between, 
 'Tis the poor minister's concluding scene: 
 Shelter'd beneath thy pinions, he withdraws, 
 And tells us his integrity 's the cause. 
 Sneaking to solitude, he rails at state, 
 And rather would be virtuous than be great ; 
 Laments the impotence of those who guide, 
 And wishes public clamours may subside. 
 But while such rogues as North or Sandwich steer, 
 Our grievances will never disappear. 
 
 Hail, Resignation! 'tis from thee we trace 
 The various villanies of power and place; 
 When rascals, once but infamy and rags. 
 Rich with a nation's ruin, swell their bags, 
 Purchase a title and a royal smile. 
 And pay to be distinguishably vile; 
 When big with self-importance thus they shine. 
 Contented with their gleanings they resign.
 
 Resimaiion. 1 1 1 
 
 ^<b 
 
 When ministers, unable to preside, 
 
 The tottering vehicle no longer guide, 
 
 The powerful Thane prepares to kick his grace 
 
 From all his glorious dignities of place; 
 
 But still the honour of the action 's thine, 
 
 And Grafton's tender conscience can resign. 
 
 Lament not, Grafton, that thy hasty fall 
 
 Turns out a public happiness to all ; 
 
 Still, by your emptiness of look appear 
 
 The ruins of a man who used to steer ; 
 
 Still wear that insignificance of face 
 
 Which dignifies you more than power or place. 
 
 Whilst now the Constitution tottering stands, 
 
 And needs the firm support of able hands, 
 
 Your grace stood foremost in the glorious cause, 
 
 To shake the very basis of our laws ; 
 
 But, thanks to Camden and a noble few, 
 
 They stemm'd Oppression's tide, and conquer'd you. 
 
 How can your prudence be completely praised 
 
 In flying from the storm yourself had raised? 
 
 When the black clouds of discord vail'd the sky, 
 
 'Twas more than prudence in your grace to fly ; 
 
 For had the thunders burst upon your head. 
 
 Soon had you mingled with the headless dead : 
 
 Not Bute, though here the deputy of fate. 
 
 Could save so vile a minister of state. 
 
 Oft as the Carlton Sibyl prophesied 
 
 How long each minister of state should guide, 
 
 And from the dark recesses of her cell, 
 
 When Bute was absent, would to Stuart tell 
 
 The secret fates of senators and peers, 
 
 What lord 's exalted but to lose his ears, 
 
 What future plans the junto have design'd, 
 
 What writers are with Rockingham combined,
 
 1 1 2 Chatter foils Poems. 
 
 Who should accept a privy seal or rod, 
 
 Who 's lord-lieutenant of the land of Nod, 
 
 What pension'd nobleman should hold his post, 
 
 What poor dependent scored without his host, 
 
 What patriot, big with popular applause, 
 
 Should join the ministry and prop the cause, 
 
 With many secrets of a like import, 
 
 The daily tittle-tattle of a court, 
 
 By common fame retaii'd as office news 
 
 In coffee-houses, taverns, cellars, stews; 
 
 Oft from her secret casket would she draw 
 
 A knotty plaii to undermine the law ; 
 
 But though the council sat upon the scheme, 
 
 Time has discovered that 'tis all a dream; 
 
 Long had she known the date of Grafton's power, 
 
 And in her tablet mark'd his flying hour : 
 
 Rumour reports a message from her cell 
 
 Arrived but just three hours before he fell. 
 
 Well knew the subtle minister of state 
 
 Her knowledge in the mysteries of fate. 
 
 And, catching every pension he could find, 
 
 Obey'd the fatal summons and resign'd. 
 
 Far in the north, amidst whose dreary hills 
 None hear the pleasant murmuring sound of rills, 
 Where no soft gale in dying raptures blows, 
 Or aught which bears the look of verdure grows, 
 Save where the north wind cuts the solemn yew, 
 And russet rushes drink the noxious dew, 
 Dank exhalations drawn from stagnant moors — 
 The morning dress of Caledonia's shores — 
 Upon a bleak and solitary plain, 
 Exposed to every storm of wind and rain,
 
 Resignation. 113 
 
 A humble cottage rear'd its lowly head, 
 
 Its roof with matted reeds and rushes spread; 
 
 The walls were osiers daub'd with slimy clay, 
 
 One narrow entrance open'd to the day. 
 
 Here lived a Laird, the ruler of his clan, 
 
 Whose fame through every northern mountain ran; 
 
 Great was his learning, for he long had been 
 
 A student at the town of Aberdeen; 
 
 Professor of all languages at once. 
 
 To him some reckon'd Chappellow* a dunce. 
 
 With happy fluency he learn'd to speak 
 
 Syriac or Latin, Arabic or Greek ; 
 
 Not any tongue in which Oxonians sing 
 
 When they rejoice, or blubber with the king, 
 
 To him appear'd unknown : with sapient look 
 
 He taught the Highland meaning of each crook; 
 
 But often, when to pastimes he inclined. 
 
 To give some I'elaxation to his mind, 
 
 He laid his books aside — forgot to read — 
 
 To hunt wild goslings down the river Tweed, 
 
 To chase a starving weasel from her bed. 
 
 And wear the spoil triumphant on his head. 
 
 'Tis true his rent-roll just maintain'd his state ; 
 
 But some, in spite of poverty, are great. 
 
 Though famine sunk her impress on his face, 
 
 Still you might there his haughty temper trace. 
 
 Descended from a catalogue of kings. 
 
 Whose warlike arts MacPherson sweetly sings, 
 
 He bore the majesty of monarchs past. 
 
 Like a tall pine rent with the winter's blast. 
 
 Whose spreading trunk and wither'd branches show 
 
 How glorious once the lordly tree might grow. 
 
 • Professor of Arabic in the University of Cambridge from 1720 to 1768 ; 
 distinguished lor his extensive acquaintance with Oriental languages.
 
 1 T 4 Chatterton's Poems. 
 
 Of all the warring passions in his breast, 
 Ambition still presided o'er the rest ; 
 This is the spur which actuates us all, 
 The visionary height whence thousands fall, 
 The author's hobby-horse, the soldier's steed, 
 Which aids him in each military deed. 
 The lady's dresser, looking-glass, and paint. 
 The warm devotion of the seeming saint. 
 
 Sawney, the nobler ruler of the clan. 
 Had number'd o'er the riper years of man, 
 Graceful in stature, ravishing his mien, 
 To make a conquest was but to be seen. 
 Fired by ambition, he resolved to roam 
 Far from the famine of his native home. 
 To seek the warmer climate of the south. 
 And at one banquet feast his eyes and mouth. 
 In vain the amorous Highland lass complain'd, 
 The son of monarchs would not be restrain'd ; 
 Clad in his native many-colour'd suit, 
 Forth struts the walking majesty of Bute. 
 His spacious sword, to a large wallet strung, 
 Across his broad, capacious shoulders hung : 
 As from the hills the land of promise rose, 
 A secret transport in his bosom glows : 
 A joy prophetic, until then unknown. 
 Assured him all he view'd would be his own. 
 New scenes of pleasure recreate his sight. 
 He views the fertile meadows with delight ; 
 Still in soliloquy he praised the view. 
 Nor more was pleased with future scenes at Kew. 
 His wonder broke in murmurs from his tongue, 
 No more the praise of Highland hM§ he sung, 
 Till now a stranger to the cheerful green 
 Where springing flowers diversify the scene,
 
 The lofty elm, the oak of lordly look, 
 The willow shadowing the bubbling brook, 
 The hedges blooming with the sweets of May, 
 With double pleasure mark'd his gladsome way. 
 Having through varying rural prospects pass'd, 
 He reach'd the great metropolis at last.
 
 ii6 Chattcrtoii's Poems. 
 
 Here fate beheld him as he trudged the street, 
 
 Bare was his buttocks and unshod his feet, 
 
 A lengthening train of boys display'd him great, 
 
 He seem'd already minister of state. 
 
 • The Carlton Sibyl saw his graceful mien, 
 
 And straight forgot her hopes of being Queen. 
 ***** 
 
 She sigh'd, she wish'd; swift virtuous Chudleigh flew 
 
 To bring the Caledonian swain to Kew ; 
 
 Then introduced him to her secret cell, — 
 
 What further can the modest numbers tell? 
 ***** 
 
 None rode the broomstaff with so good a grace, 
 Or pleased her with such majesty efface; 
 Enraptured with her incubus, she sought 
 How to reward his merit as she ought. 
 Resolved to make him greatest of the great, 
 She led him to her hidden cave of state ; 
 There spurs and coronets were placed around, 
 And privy seals were scatter'd on the ground ; 
 Here piles of honorary truncheons lay. 
 And gleaming stars made artificial day, 
 With mystic rods, whose magic power is such 
 They metamorphose parties with a touch. 
 
 Here hung the princely * of garter'd blue, 
 
 With flags of all varieties of hue. 
 
 "These," said the Sibyl, "from this present hour 
 
 Are thine, with every dignity of power. 
 
 No statesman shall be titularly great. 
 
 None shall obtain an office in the state, 
 
 But such whose principles and manners suit 
 
 The virtuous temper of the Earl of Bute. 
 
 * Illegible in MS.
 
 Resignation. 117 
 
 All shall pursue thy interest, none shall guide 
 
 But such as you repute are qualified. 
 
 No more on Scotland's melancholy plain 
 
 Your starving countrymen shall drink the rain, 
 
 But hither hastening on their naked feet, 
 
 Procure a place, forget themselves, and eat. 
 
 No southern patriot shall oppose my will, 
 
 If not my look, my Treasurer can kill; 
 
 His pistol never fails in time of need, 
 
 And who dares contradict my power shall bleed. 
 
 A future Barrington will also rise. 
 
 With blood and death to entertain my eyes ; — 
 
 But this forestalls futurity and fate, 
 
 I'll choose the present hour to make thee great. 
 
 He bow'd submission, and with eager view 
 
 Gazed on the wither'd oracle of Kew. 
 
 She seized a pendant garter, and began 
 
 To elevate the ruler of the clan, 
 
 Girt round his leg the honour'd trifle shown. 
 
 And gather'd double lustre from the throne : 
 
 With native dignity he fill'd the stall. 
 
 The wonder, jest, and enmity of all. 
 
 Not yet content with honorary grace. 
 
 The Sibyl, busy for the sweets of place, 
 
 Kick'd out a minister, the people's pride, 
 
 And lifted Sawney in his place to guide. 
 
 The Leader of the Treasury he rose. 
 
 Whilst fate mark'd down the nation's future woes. 
 
 Mad with ambition, his imperious hand 
 
 Scatter'd oppression through a groaning land 
 
 Still taxes foUow'd taxes, grants, supplies. 
 
 With every ill resulting from excise. 
 
 Not satisfied with this unjust increase, 
 
 He struck a bolder stroke, and sold the peace:
 
 ii8 Chatierton''s Poems. 
 
 The Gallic millions so convinced his mind, 
 On honourable terms the treaty 's signed. 
 
 But who his private character can blame, 
 Or brand his titles with a villain's name? 
 Upon an estimation of the gains, 
 He stoop'd beneath himself to take the reins,- 
 A good economist, he served the crown. 
 And made his master's interest his own. 
 His starving friends and countrymen applied 
 To share the ministry, assist to guide ; 
 Nor ask'd in vain: — his charitable hand 
 Made Plenty smile in Scotland's barren land, 
 Her wandering sons, for poverty renown'd, 
 Places and pensions, bribes or titles found. 
 Far from the south was humble merit fled, 
 And on the northern mountains rear'd her head; 
 And genius, having ranged beyond the Tweed, 
 Sat brooding upon bards who could not read; 
 Whilst courage, boasting of his Highland might, 
 Mentions not CuUoden's inglorious flight; 
 But whilst his lordship fills the honour'd stall. 
 Ample provision satisfies them all. 
 The genius sings his praise, the soldier swears 
 To mutilate each murmuring caitiff's ears ; 
 The father of his country they adore. 
 And live in elegance unknown before. 
 Nor yet unthankful he for power and place ; 
 He praised the Sibyl with distinguish'd grace.* 
 
 * * 
 
 Around this mystic sun of liquid gold 
 A swarm of planetary statesmen roll'd ; 
 
 Twelve lines are here omitted.
 
 Resignation. up 
 
 Though some have since as ministers been known, 
 
 They shone with borrow'd lustre not their own : 
 
 In every revoUition, day and night, 
 
 From Bute they caught each particle of light : 
 
 He destined out the circles they fulfil, 
 
 Hung on the bulky nothing of his will. 
 
 How shall I brand with infamy a name 
 Which bids defiance to all sense of shame? 
 How shall I touch his iron soul with pain, 
 Who hears unmoved a multitude complain? 
 A multitude made wretched by his hand, 
 The common curse and nuisance of the land. 
 Holland, of thee I sing — infernal wretch! 
 Say, can thy power of mischief further stretch? 
 Is there no other army to be sold. 
 No town to be destroy'd for bribes and gold? 
 Or wilt thou rather sit contented down 
 And starve the subject to enrich the crown ? 
 That when the treasury can boast supplies, 
 Thy pilfering genius may have exercise : 
 Whilst unaccounted millions pay thy toil, 
 Thou art secure if Bute divides the spoil. 
 Catching his influence from the best of kings. 
 Vice broods beneath the shadow of his wings. 
 The vengeance of a nation is defied, 
 And liberty and justice set aside. 
 Distinguish'd robber of the public, say. 
 What urged thy timid spirit's hasty way? 
 
 She in the protection of a king. 
 
 Did recollection paint the fate of Byng? 
 Did conscience hold that mirror to thy sight, 
 Or Aylyffe's ghost accompany thy flight?
 
 120 C/iattertoiis Poems. 
 
 Is Bute more powerful than the scepter'd hand, 
 Or art thou safer in a foreign land? 
 In vain, the scene relinquish'd, now you grieve, 
 Cursing the moment you were forced to leave 
 Thy ruins, on the Isle of Thanet built, 
 The fruits of plunder, villany, and guilt. 
 When you presume on English ground to tread, 
 Justice will lift her weapon at your head. 
 Contented with the author of your state, 
 Maintain the conversation of the great. 
 Be busy in confederacy and plot, 
 And settle what shall be on what is not ; 
 Display the statesman in some wild design, 
 Foretell when North will tumble and resisrn. 
 How long the busy Sandwich, mad for rule, 
 Will lose his labour and remain a fool ; 
 But your accounts, the subject of debate, 
 Are sunk beneath the notice of the great. 
 Let bribed exchequer-tellers find 'em just. 
 While, on the penalty of place, they must; 
 Before they're seen, your honesty is clear. 
 And all will evidently right appear. 
 
 When as a Minister you had your day, 
 And gather'd light from Bute's superior ray. 
 His striking representative you shone. 
 And seem'd to glimmer in yourself alone; 
 The lives of thousands barter'd for a bribe. 
 With villanies too shocking to describe; 
 Your system of oppression testified 
 None but the conscientious Fox could guide. 
 As Bute is fix'd eternal in his sphere, 
 And Ministers revolve around in air,
 
 Ecsignatio?!. 1 2 1 
 
 Your infamy, with such a lasting ray, 
 
 Glow'd through your orb in one continual day: 
 
 Still ablest politicians hold dispute 
 
 Whether you gave or borrovv'd light from Bute. 
 
 Lost in the blaze of his superior parts, 
 
 We often have descried your little arts ; 
 
 But at a proper distance from his sphere 
 
 We saw the little villain disappear : 
 
 When dress'd in titles, the burlesque of place, 
 
 A more illustrious rascal show'd his face ; 
 
 Your destined sphere of Ministry now run, 
 
 You dropp'd like others in the parent sun ; 
 
 There as a spot you purpose to remain. 
 
 And seek protection in the Sibyl's swain. 
 
 Grafton his planetary life began. 
 
 Though foreign to the system of the clan ; 
 
 Slowly he roU'd around the fount of light, 
 
 Long was his day, but longer was his night. 
 
 Irregular, unequal in his course. 
 
 Now languid he revolves, now rolls with force! 
 
 His scarce-collected light, obliquely hurl'd. 
 
 Was scatter'd ere it reach'd his frozen world. 
 
 Through all his under offices of place. 
 
 All had conspired to represent his grace ; 
 
 Lifeless and dull the wheels of state were driven. 
 
 Slow as a coui'tier on his road to heaven. 
 
 If expedition urged the dull machine. 
 
 He knew so little of the golden mean. 
 
 Swift hurry and confusion wild began 
 
 To discompose the Thane's determined plan. 
 
 Error, his secretary, lent his aid 
 
 To undermine each plot his cunning laid ; 
 
 He wrote dispatches in his grace's name, 
 
 And ruin'd every project North could frame;
 
 122 Chaiterton's Poems. 
 
 Yet, as he blunder'd through the lengthen'd night, 
 
 He seriously protested all was right. 
 
 Since dissipation is thy only joy, 
 
 Go, Grafton, join the dance, and act the boy ; 
 
 'Tis not for fops in cabinets to shine. 
 
 And justice must confess that title's thine; 
 
 Dress to excess and powder into fame, 
 
 In drums and hurricanes exalt your name. 
 
 There you may glitter, there your worth may rise 
 
 Above the little reach of vulgar eyes ; 
 
 But in the high departments of the state 
 
 Your talents are too trifling to be great : 
 
 There all your imperfections rise to view, 
 
 Not Sandwich so contemptible as you. 
 
 Bute from the summit of his power descried 
 
 Your glaring inability to guide, 
 
 And mustering every rascal in his gang, 
 
 Who might for merit altogether hang. 
 
 From the black catalogue and worthy crew. 
 
 The Jesuitical and scheming few. 
 
 Selected by the leader of the clan. 
 
 Received instructions for their future plan. 
 
 And after proper adoration paid. 
 
 Were to their destined sphere of state convey'd. 
 
 To shine the Minister's satellites. 
 
 Collect his light, and give his lordship ease. 
 
 Reform his crooked politics, and draw 
 
 A more severe attack upon the law; 
 
 Settle his erring revolutions right. 
 
 And give in just proportion day and night. 
 
 Alas ! the force of Scottish pride is such, 
 These mushrooms of a day presumed too much ;
 
 Resignation. 123 
 
 Conscious of cunning and superior arts, 
 They scorn'd the Minister's too trifling parts; 
 Grafton resents a treatment so unjust, 
 And damns the Carlton Sibyl's fiery lust, 
 By which a scoundrel Scot oppress'd the realm, 
 And rogues, below contempt, disgraced the helm. 
 Swift scandal caught the accents as they fell, 
 And bore them to the Sibyl's secret cell. 
 Enraged, she wing'd a messenger to Bute, 
 Some Minister more able to depute ; 
 Her character and virtue was a jest, 
 Whilst Grafton was of useless power possess'd. 
 This done, her just desire of vengeance warm, 
 She gave him notice of the bursting storm. 
 Timid and dubious, Grafton faced about, 
 And trembled at the thoughts of being out ; 
 But as no laws the Sibyl's power confined. 
 He dropp'd his blushing honours and resign'd. 
 Step forward. North ! and let the doubtful see 
 Wonders and miracles revived in thee. 
 Did not the living witness haunt the court, 
 What ear had given faith to my report? 
 Amidst the rout of ministerial slaves. 
 Rogues who want genius to refine to knaves, 
 Who could imagine that the wretch most base 
 Should fill the highest infamy of place? 
 That North, the vile domestic of a peer, 
 Whose name an Englishman detests to hear, 
 Should leave his trivial share of Bedford's trains. 
 Become a Minister, and take the reins; 
 And from the meanest of the gang ascend 
 Above his worthy governor and friertd? 
 This wondrous metamorphose of an hour 
 Sufficiently evinced the .Sibyl's power
 
 124 Chattertoiis Poems. 
 
 To ruin nations, little rogues to raise, 
 
 A virtue supernatural displays; 
 
 What but a power infernal or divine 
 
 Could honour North, or make his grace resign? 
 
 Some superficial politicians tell, 
 When Grafton from his gilded turret fell, 
 The Sibyl substituted North a blank, 
 A muster'd fagot to complete the rank, 
 Without a distant thought that such a tool 
 Would change its being and aspire to rule ; 
 But such the humble North's indulgent fate, 
 When striding in the saddle of the state. 
 He caught by inspiration statemanship, 
 And drove the slow machine and smack'd his whip; 
 Whilst Bedford, wondering at his sudden skill. 
 With reverence view'd the packhorse of his will. 
 
 His Majesty (the buttons thrown aside) 
 Declared his fix'd intention to preside. 
 No longer sacrificed to every knave, 
 He'd show himself discreet as well as brave; 
 In every cabinet and council cause 
 He'd be dictator and enforce the laws ; 
 Whilst North should in his present office stand 
 As understrapper to direct his hand. 
 
 Now, Expectation, now extend thy wing! 
 Happy the land whose minister's a king! 
 Happy the king who, ruling each debate. 
 Can peep through every roguery of state ! 
 See Hope, array'd in robes of virgin white. 
 Trailing an arch'd variety of light,
 
 Resignation. 125 
 
 Comes showering blessings on a ruin'd realm, 
 And shows the crown'd director of the helm. 
 Return, fair Goddess ! till some future day 
 The king has seen the error of his way; 
 And by his smarting shoulders seems to feel 
 The wheel of state is not a Catharine wheel. 
 Wise by experience, general nurse of fools, 
 He leaves the Ministry to venal tools, 
 And finds his happy talents better suit 
 The making buttons for his favourite Bute; 
 In countenancing the unlawful views 
 Which North, the delegate of Bute, pursues; 
 In glossing with authority a train 
 Whose names are infamy and objects gain. 
 
 Hail, filial duty ! great if rightly used. 
 How little when mistaken and abused! 
 View'd from one point, how glorious art thou seen ! 
 From others, how degenerate and mean ! — 
 A seraph or an idiot's head we see : 
 Oft on the latter sta.nds the type of thee, 
 And bowing at his parent's knee is dress'd 
 In a long hood of many colour'd vest. 
 
 The sceptred king who dignifies a throne 
 
 Should be in private life himself alone ; 
 
 No friend or mother should his conscience scan, 
 
 Or with the nation's head confound the man. 
 
 Like juggling Melchi Zadok's priestish plea, 
 
 Collected in himself a king should be. 
 
 But truths may be unwelcome, and the lay 
 
 Which shall to Royal ears such truths convey, 
 
 The conflagrations of the hangman's ire 
 
 May roast and execute with foreign fire. 
 
 II
 
 126 Chatterfofi's Poems. 
 
 The Muse who values safety shall return, 
 And sing of subjects where she cannot burn. 
 Continue, North, thy vile burlesque of power, 
 And reap the harvest of the present hour ; 
 Collect and fill thy coffers with the spoil, 
 And let thy gatherings recompense thy toil, 
 Whilst the rogues out revile the rascals in, 
 Repeat the proverb, " Let those laugh that win." 
 Fleeting and transitory is the date 
 Of sublunary ministers of state ; 
 Then, whilst thy summer lasts, prepare thy hay, 
 Nor trust to autumn and a future day. 
 
 I leave thee now, but with intent to trace 
 The villains and the honest men of place. 
 The first are still assisting in thy train 
 To aid the pillage and divide the gain. 
 The last, of known integrity of mind. 
 Forsook a venal party and resign'd. 
 
 Come, Satire! aid me to display the first, 
 Of every honest Englishman accursed; 
 Come, Truth ! assist me to prepare the lays. 
 Where worth demands, and give the latter praise. 
 Ingenious Sandwich, whither dost thou fly 
 To shun the censure of the public eye? 
 Dost thou want matter for another speech, 
 Or other works of genius to impeach ? 
 Or would thy insignificance and pride 
 Presume above thyself and seek to guide.'' 
 Pursue thy ignis-fatuus of power. 
 And call to thy assistance virtuous Gower; 
 Set Rigby's happy countenance in play 
 To vindicate whatever you can say.
 
 Resignation. 127 
 
 Then, when you totter into place and fame, 
 With double infamy you brand your name. 
 Say, Sandwich, in the winter of your date. 
 Can you ascend the hobby-horse of state? 
 Do titles echo grateful in your ear? 
 Or is it mockery to call you peer? 
 
 In silver'd age to play the fool, 
 
 And with rascals infamous a tool, 
 
 Plainly denote your judgment is no more. 
 Your honour was extinguish'd long before. 
 
 Say, if reflection ever bless'd thy mind. 
 Hast thou one real friend among mankind? 
 Thou hadst one once, free, generous, and sincere, 
 Too good a senator for such a peer ; 
 Him thou hast offer'd as a sacrifice 
 To lewdness, immorality, and vice : 
 Your patronizing scoundrels set the gin. 
 And friendship was the bait to draw him in. 
 What honourable villain could they find 
 Of Sandwich's latitudinary mind? 
 Though intimacy seem'd to stop the way. 
 You they employ'd to tempt him and betray. 
 Full well you executed their commands. 
 Well you deserved the pension at their hands. 
 For you, in hours of trifling, he compiled 
 A dissertation blasphemous and wild. 
 Be it recorded, too, at your desire. 
 He call'd for demons to assist his lyre; 
 Relying on your friendship, soon he found 
 How dangerous the support of rotten ground. 
 In your infernal attributes array'd. 
 You seized the wish'd-for poem and betray'd.
 
 128 Chatteiio7i^s Poems. 
 
 Hail, mighty Twitcher! can my feeble line 
 Give due reward to merit such as thine ? 
 Not Churchill's keenest satire ever reach'd 
 The conscience of the I'ascal who impeach'd. 
 My humble numbers and untutor'd lay 
 On such a harden'd wretch is thrown away ; 
 I leave thee to the impotent delight 
 Of visiting the harlots of the night ; 
 Go, hear thy nightingale's enchanting strain, 
 My satire shall not dart a sting in vain. 
 There you may boast one sense is entertain'd, 
 Though age present your other senses pain'd : 
 Go, Sandwich, if thy fire of lust compel, 
 Regale at Harrington's religious cell. 
 
 * * % % * * 
 
 Exert your poor endeavours as you please, 
 The jest and bubble of the harlot crew ; 
 What entertain'd your youth, in age pursue. 
 When Grafton shook oppression's iron rod. 
 Like Egypt's lice, the instrument of God ; 
 When Camden, driven from his office, saw 
 The last weak efforts of expiring law ; 
 When Bute, the regulator of the state, 
 Preferr'd the vicious, to supplant the great ; 
 When rank corruption through all orders ran, 
 And infamy united Sawney's clan ; 
 When every office was with rogues disgraced, 
 And the Scotch dialect became the taste — 
 Could Beaufort with such creatures stay behind ? 
 No; Beaufort was a Briton, and resign'd. 
 Thy resignation, Somerset, shall shine 
 When time hath buried the recording line. 
 And, proudly glaring in the rolls of fame. 
 With more than titles decorate thy name.
 
 Resignation. 129 
 
 Amidst the gather'd rascals of the age, 
 Who murder noble parts, the court their stage. 
 One nobleman of honesty remains, 
 Who scorns to draw in ministerial chains; 
 Who honours virtue and his country's peace, 
 And sees with pity grievances increase ; 
 Who bravely left all sordid views of place, 
 And lives, the honour of the Beaufort race. 
 
 Deep in the secret, Barrington and Gower, 
 Raised upon villany, aspire to power ; 
 Big with importance, they presume to rise 
 Above a minister they must despise; 
 Whilst Barrington, as secretary, shows 
 How many pensions paid his blood and blows ; 
 And Gower, the humbler creature of the two. 
 Has only future prospects in his view. 
 But North requires assistance from the great. 
 To work another Button in the state. 
 That Weymouth may complete the birthday suit. 
 Full trimm'd by Twitcher, and cut out by Bute. 
 So many worthy schemers must produce 
 A statesman's coat of universal use; 
 Some system of economy, to save 
 Another million for another knave ; 
 Some plan to make a duty, large before, 
 Additionally great, to grind the poor : 
 For 'tis a maxim with a guiding wise. 
 Just as the commons sink, the rich arise. 
 
 If Ministers and privy council knaves 
 Would rest contented with their being slaves, 
 And not, with anxious infamy, pursue 
 Those measures which will fetter others too,
 
 130 Chattertoii s Poems. 
 
 The swelling cry of liberty would rest, 
 
 Nor Englishmen complain, nor knaves protest. 
 
 But courtiers have a littleness of mind, 
 
 And, once enslaved, would fetter all mankind. 
 
 'Tis to this narrowness of soul we owe 
 
 What further ills our liberties shall know; 
 
 'Tis from this principle our feuds began, 
 
 Fomented by the Scots, ignoble clan. 
 
 Strange that such little creatures of a tool, 
 
 By lust, and not by merit, raised to rule, 
 
 Should sow contention in a noble land. 
 
 And scatter thunders from a venal hand. 
 
 Gods ! that these flyblows of a stallion's day, 
 
 Warm'd into being by the Sibyl's ray, 
 
 Should shake the constitution, rights, and laws, 
 
 And prosecute the man of freedom's cause! 
 
 Whilst Wilkes to every Briton's right appeal'd, 
 
 With loss of liberty that right he seal'd : 
 
 Imprison'd and oppress'd he persevered. 
 
 Nor Sawney or his powerful Sibyl fear'd. 
 
 The hag, replete with malice from above, 
 
 Shot poison on the screech-owl of her love : 
 
 Unfortunately to his pen it fell, 
 
 And flow'd in double rancour to her cell. 
 
 Madly she raved, to ease her tortured mind, 
 
 The object of her hatred is confined ; 
 
 But he, supported by his country's laws. 
 
 Bid her defiance, for 'twas freedom's cause. 
 
 Her Treasurer and Talbot fought in vain, 
 
 Though each attain'd his favourite object — gain. 
 
 She sat as usual when a project fails, 
 
 Damn'd Chudleigh's phiz, and dined upon her nails. 
 
 Unhappy land ! whose govern'd Monarch sees 
 Through glasses and perspective such as these.
 
 Resignation. 131 
 
 When juggling to deceive his untried sight, 
 He views the Ministry all trammell'd right; 
 Whilst, to his eye the other glass applied, 
 His subjects' failings are all magnified. 
 Unheeded the petitions are received, 
 Nor one retort of grievances believed; 
 'Tis but the voice of faction in disguise 
 That bhnds with liberty the people's eyes : 
 'Tis riot and licentiousness pursues 
 Some disa]^ pointed placeman's private views. 
 And shall such venal creatures steer the helm. 
 Waving Oppression's banners round the realm ? 
 
 Shall Britons to the vile detested troop. 
 
 Forgetting ancient honour, meanly stoop? 
 
 Shall we our rights and liberties resign. 
 
 To lay those jewels at a woman's shrine? 
 
 No; let us still be Britons-, be it known, 
 
 The favours we solicit are our own. 
 
 Engage, ye Britons, in the glorious task. 
 
 And stronger still enforce the things you ask : 
 
 Assert your rights, remonstrate with the thrcne, 
 
 Insist on liberty, and that alone. 
 
 Alas ! America, thy ruin'd cause 
 Displays the Ministry's contempt of laws. 
 Unrepresented, thou art tax'd, excised. 
 By creatures much too vile to be despised ; 
 The outcast of an ousted gang are sent 
 To bless thy commerce with ... * government. 
 Whilst pity rises to behold thy fate. 
 We see thee in this worst of troubles great ; 
 Whilst anxious for thy wavering dubious cause, 
 We give thy proper spirit due applause. 
 
 * This hiatus occurs in the IMS.
 
 132 ChatterioiCs Poems. 
 
 If virtuous Grafton's sentimental taste 
 
 Is in his measures or his mistress placed, 
 
 In either 'tis originally rare; 
 
 One shows the midnight cully, one the peer : 
 
 Review him, Britons, with a proper pride, — 
 
 Was this a statesman qualified to guide? 
 
 Was this the Minister whose mighty hand 
 
 Has scatter'd civil discord through the land ? 
 
 Since smallest trifles, when ordain'd by fate, 
 
 Rise into power and counteract the great. 
 
 What shall we call thee, Grafton? f^ortune's whip? 
 
 Or, rather, the burlesque of statesmanship?— 
 
 When, daring in thy insolence of place, 
 
 Bold in an empty majesty of face. 
 
 We saw thee exercise thy magic rod, 
 
 And form a titled villain with a nod ; 
 
 Turn out the virtuous, airily advance 
 
 The members of the council in a dance. 
 
 And honouring Sandwich with a serious air, 
 
 Commend the fancy of his solitau-e. 
 
 These were thy actions, worthy of record. 
 
 Worthy the bubbled wretch and venal lord. 
 
 Since villany is meritorious grown. 
 
 Step forward, for thy merit 's not unknown. 
 
 What Mansfield's conscience shudder'd to receive. 
 
 Thy mercenary temper cannot leave. 
 
 Reversions, pensions, bribes, and titled stews, 
 
 What mortal scoundrel can such things refuse? 
 
 If Dunning's nice integrity of mind 
 
 Will not in pales of interest be confined, 
 
 Let his uncommon honesty resign, 
 
 And boast the empty pension of the nine : 
 
 A Thurloe, grasping every offer'd straw, 
 
 Shines his successor, and degi-ades the law.
 
 Resignation. 133 
 
 How like the Ministry who link'd his chains, 
 His measures tend incessantly to gains! 
 
 IfWeymouth dresses to the height of taste, 
 At once with fifty ... * places laced. 
 Can such a summer insect of the state 
 Be otherwise than in externals great? 
 Thou bustling marplot of each hidden plan, 
 How wilt thou answer to the Sibyl's man? 
 Did thy own shallow politics direct 
 To treat the Mayor with purposed disrespect? 
 Or did it come in orders from above, 
 From her who sacrificed her soul to love? 
 Rigby, whose conscience is a perfect dice, 
 A just epitome of every vice. 
 Replete with what accomplishments support 
 The empty admiration of a court, 
 Yet wants a barony to grace record, 
 And hopes to lose the rascal in the lord. 
 His wish is granted, and the King prepares 
 A title of renown, to brand his heirs. 
 When vice creates the patent for a peer. 
 What lord so nominally great as Clare? 
 Whilst Chatham, from his coroneted oak. 
 Unheeded, shook the senate with his croak, 
 The Minister, too powerful to be right, 
 Laugh'd at his prophecy and second sight. 
 Since Mother Shipton's oracle of state 
 Forestall'd the future incidents of fate. 
 Grafton might shake his elbows, dance and dream, 
 'Twere labour lost to strive against the stream. 
 If Grafton, in his juggling statesman's game, 
 Bubbled for interest, betted but for fame, 
 
 * A word omitted in the MS.
 
 134 C/iaihrtoJi's Poems. 
 
 The leader of the Treasury could pay 
 
 For every loss in politics and play. 
 
 Sir Fletcher's noisy eloquence of tongue 
 
 Is on such pliant, oily hinges hung, 
 
 Turn'd to all points of politics and doubt, 
 
 But though for ever worsted, never out. 
 
 Can such a wretched creature take the chair, 
 
 And exercise his new-made power with air? 
 
 This worthy speaker of a worthy crew 
 
 Can write long speeches, and repeat them too ; 
 
 A practised lawyer in the venal court. 
 
 From higher powers he borrows his report; 
 
 Above the scandalous aspersion tool, 
 
 He only squares his conscience by a rule. 
 
 Granby, too great to join the hated cause. 
 
 Throws down his useless truncheon and withdraws ; 
 
 Whilst unrenown'd for military deeds, 
 
 A youthful branch of royalty succeeds. 
 
 Let Coventry, Yonge, Palmerston, and Brett, 
 With resignation pay the crown a debt ; 
 If in return for offices of trust 
 The Ministry expect you'll prove unjust. 
 What soul that values freedom could with ease 
 Stoop under obligations such as these ? 
 If you, a Briton, every virtue dead. 
 That would upon vour dving freedom tread, 
 List in the gang, and piously procure 
 To make your calling and election sure. 
 Go, flatter Sawney for his jockeyship. 
 Assist in each long shuffle, hedge, and slip ; 
 Thus rising on the stilts of favour, see 
 What Grafton was, and future dukes will be ;
 
 Resignation. 135 
 
 How Rigby, Weymouth, Barrington began 
 To juggle into fame and play the man. 
 
 Amidst this general rage of turning out, 
 What officer will stand, remains a doubt. 
 If virtue 's an objection at the board, 
 With what propriety the council's stored! 
 Where could the Caledonian minion find 
 Such striking copies of his venal mind? 
 Search through the winding labyrinths of place, 
 See all alike politically base. 
 If virtues foreign to the office shine. 
 How fast the prodigies of state resign ! 
 Still as they drop, the rising race begin 
 To boast the infamy of being in; 
 And generous Bristol, constant to his friend. 
 Employs his lifted crutches to ascend. 
 Look round thee. North ! see what a glorious scene ! — 
 Oh let no thought of vengeance intervene ! 
 Throw thy own insignificance aside, 
 And swell in self-importance, power, and pride. 
 See Holland easy with his pilfer'd store. 
 See Bute intriguing how to pilfer more. 
 See Grafton's coffers boast the wealth of place, 
 A provident reserve to hedge a race. 
 New to oppression and the servile chain. 
 Hark how the wrong'd Americans complain ! 
 Whilst unregarded the petitions lie. 
 And Liberty unnoticed swells her cry, 
 Yet, yet reflect, thou despicable thing, 
 How wavering is the favour of a king; 
 Think, since that feeble fence and Bute is all, 
 How soon thy humbug farce of state may fall: 
 Then catch the present moment while 'tis thine. 
 Implore a noble pension, and resign.
 
 136 Chatterton^s Poems. 
 
 HOR. Lib. I. Od. 5. 
 
 What gentle youth, my lovely fair one, say, 
 
 With sweets perfumed now courts thee to the bower, 
 
 Where glows with lustre red the rose of May, 
 To form thy couch in love's enchanting hour? 
 
 By zephyr's waved, why does thy loose hair sweep 
 In simple curls around thy polish'd brow? 
 
 The wretch that loves thee now too soon shall weep 
 Thy faithless beauty and thy broken vow. 
 
 Though soft the beams of thy delusive eyes 
 
 As the smooth surface of the untroubled stream ; 
 
 Yet, ah! too soon the ecstatic vision flies — 
 Flies like the fairy paintings of a dream. 
 
 Unhappy youth ! oh shun the warm embrace. 
 Nor trust too much affection's flattering smile! 
 
 Dark poison lurks beneath that charming face, 
 Those melting eyes but languish to beguile. 
 
 Thank heaven, I've broke the sweet but galling chain, 
 Worse than the horrors of the stormy main ! 
 
 HOR. Lib. I. Od. 19. 
 
 Yes ! I am caught ; my melting soul 
 To Venus bends without control, —   
 1 pour the empassion'd sigh.
 
 A Bacchanalicn. 
 
 Ye gods ! what throbs my bosom move, 
 Responsive to the glance of love 
 That beams from Stella's eye ! 
 
 Oh how divinely fair that face ! 
 And what a sweet resistless grace 
 
 On every feature dwells ! 
 And on those features all the while 
 The softness of each frequent smile 
 
 Her sweet good-nature tells. 
 
 O Love ! I'm thine — no more I sine 
 Heroic deeds — the sounding string- 
 
 Forgets its wonted strains; 
 For aught but love the lyre 's unstrung ; 
 Love melts and trembles on my tongue, 
 
 And thrills in every vein. 
 
 Invoking the propitious skies, 
 The green-sod altar let us rise, 
 
 Let holy incense smoke : 
 And if we pour the sparkling wine, 
 Sweet gentle peace may still be mine, 
 
 This dreadful chain be broke ! 
 
 — siTs»;^^«-e^B-- 
 
 A BACCHANALIAN. 
 
 What is glory and its joys? 
 Useless mischief, empty noise. 
 What are arms and trophies won? 
 Spangles glittering in the sun. 
 
 137
 
 138 Chaiterhvis Poems. 
 
 Rosy Bacchus, give me wine, 
 Happiness is only thine ! 
 
 What is love without the bowl? 
 'Tis a languor of the soul : 
 Crown'd with ivy, Venus charms ; 
 Ivy courts me to her arms. 
 Bacchus, give me love and wine. 
 Happiness is only thine ! 
 
 THE INVITATION. 
 
 Away to the woodlands, away ! 
 
 The shepherds are forming a ring, 
 To dance to the honour of May, 
 
 And welcome the pleasures of Spring. 
 The shepherdess labours a grace, 
 
 And shines in her Sunday's array. 
 And bears in the bloom of her face 
 
 The charms and the beauties of May. 
 
 Away to the woodlands, away I 
 
 And join with the amorous train : 
 'Tis treason to labour to-day, 
 
 Now Bacchus and Cupid must reign. 
 With garlands of primroses made. 
 
 And crown'd with the sweet blooming spray, 
 Through woodland, and meadow, and shade, 
 
 We'll dance to the honour of May.
 
 w < 
 
 THE MINSTREL'S SONG. 
 
 MODERNIZED. 
 
 Oh sing unto my roundelay; 
 
 Oh drop the briny tear with me; 
 Dance no more on holiday; 
 Like a running river be ! 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to his death-bed, 
 All under the willow tree !
 
 140 Chatiej ton V Poems. 
 
 Black his hair as the winter night, 
 
 White his throat as the summer snow, 
 Red his cheek as the morning hght, 
 Cold he lies in the grave below. 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to his death-bed, 
 All under the willow tree ! 
 
 Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note; 
 
 Quick in dance as thought can be ; 
 Deft his tabor, cudgel stout. 
 Oh, he lies by the willow tree. 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to his death-bed. 
 All under the willow tree ! 
 
 Hark! the raven flaps his wing 
 
 In the briery dell below ; 
 Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing, 
 To the night-mares as they go. 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to his death-bed, 
 All under the willow tree ! 
 
 See ! the white moon shines on hieh ; 
 
 Whiter is my true love's shroud ; 
 Whiter than the morning sky, 
 Whiter than the evening cloud. 
 My love is dead. 
 Gone to his death-bed, 
 All under the willow tree ! 
 
 Here, upon my true love's grave, 
 Shall the barren flowers be laid :
 
 The MinstrcT s Song. 141 
 
 Not one holy saint to save 
 All the coldness of a maid. 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to his death-bed, 
 All under the willow tree ! 
 
 With my hands I'll twist the briers 
 
 Round his holy corpse to gre; 
 Elfin fairy, light your fires. 
 Here my body still shall be. 
 My love is dead. 
 Gone to his death-bed, 
 All under the willow tree ! 
 
 Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, 
 Drain my heartis blood away; 
 Life and all its goods 1 scorn. 
 Dance by night, or feast by day. 
 My love is dead. 
 Gone to his death-bed, 
 All under the willow tree ! 
 
 Water-witches, crown'd with reeds. 
 
 Bear me to your deadly tide. 
 I die ! I come ! my true love waits ! — 
 
 Thus the damsel spoke, and died.
 
 142 ChaitertoJi's FoejJis. 
 
 ELEGY. 
 
 Why blooms the radiance of the morning sky? 
 
 Why spring the beauties of the season round? 
 Why buds the blossom with the glossy dye? 
 
 Ah! why does nature beautify the ground? 
 
 Whilst, softly floating on the zephyr's wing, 
 The melting accents of the thrushes rise 
 
 And all the heavenly music of the spring 
 Steal on the sense and harmonize the skies. 
 
 When the rack'd soul is not attuned to joy. 
 When sorrow an internal monarch reigns, 
 
 In vain the choristers their powers employ, — 
 'Tis hateful music and discordant strains. 
 
 The velvet mantle of the skirted mead, 
 
 The rich varieties of Flora's pride. 
 Till the full bosom is from trouble freed, 
 
 Disgusts the eye and bids the big tear glide. 
 
 Once, ere the gold-hair'd sun shot the new ray 
 Through the gray twilight of the dubious morn, 
 
 To woodlands, lawn, and hills, I took my way 
 And listen'd to the echoes of the horn ; 
 
 Dwelt on the prospect, sought the varied view. 
 Traced the meanders of the bubbling stream, 
 
 From joy to joy uninterrupted flew. 
 And thought existence but a fairy dream.
 
 CUfto7i. 143 
 
 Now through the gloomy cloister's lengthening way, 
 Through all the terror superstition frames, 
 
 I lose the minutes of the lingering day, 
 And view the night light up her pointed flames. 
 
 I dare the danger of the mouldering wall, 
 Nor heed the arch that totters o'er my head : 
 
 Oh quickly may the friendly ruin fall. 
 
 Release me of my lov^e, and strike me dead. 
 
 M ! cruel, sweet, inexorable fair, 
 
 Oh must I unregarded seek the grave? 
 Must I from all my bosom holds repair, 
 
 When one indulgent smile from thee would save? 
 
 Let mercy plead my cause ; and think, oh think ! 
 
 A love like mine but ill deserves thy hate : 
 Remember I am tottering on the brink ; 
 
 Thy smile or censure seals my final fate. 
 
 —■^^'T>~s-:^^i^~f-^ — 
 
 CLIFTON. 
 
 Clifton, sweet village ! now demands the lay, 
 
 The loved retreat of all the rich and gay ; 
 
 The darling spot which pining maidens seek, 
 
 To give health's roses to the pallid cheek. 
 
 Warm from its fount the holy water pours. 
 
 And lures the sick to Clifton's neighbouring bowers : 
 
 1
 
 144 
 
 Chattettoiis Poems. 
 
 Let bright Hygeia her glad reign resume, 
 And o'er each sickly form renew her bloom. 
 Me, whom no fell disease this hour compels 
 To visit Bristol's celebrated wells, 
 Far other motives prompt my eager view: 
 My heart can here its favourite bent pursue; 
 Here can I gaze, and pause, and muse between, 
 And draw some moral truth from evei-y scene. 
 Yon dusky rocks, that from the stream arise 
 In rude, rough grandeur, threat the distant skies, 
 Seem as if nature, in a painful throe, 
 "With dire convulsions labouring to and fro 
 (To give the boiling waves a ready vent). 
 At one dread stroke the solid mountain rent ; 
 The huge cleft rocks transmit to distant fame, 
 The sacred gilding of a good saint's name. 
 Now round the varied scene attention turns 
 Her ready eye — my soul with ardour burns; 
 For on that spot my glowing fancy dwells, 
 Where cenotaph its mournful story tells — 
 How Briton's heroes, true to honour's laws, 
 Fell, bravely fighting in their country's cause. 
 But though in distant fields your limbs are laid, 
 In fame's long list your glories ne'er will fade; 
 But, blooming still beyond the gripe of death, 
 Fear not the blast of time's inclouding breath. 
 Your generous leader raised this stone, to say 
 You foUow'd still where honour led the way ; 
 And by this tribute, which his pity pays, 
 Twines his own virtues with his soldiers' praise. 
 Now Brandon's cliffs my wandering gazes meet, 
 Whose craggy surface mocks the lingering feet; 
 Queen Bess's gift (so ancient legends say) 
 To Bristol's fair ; where to the sun's warm ray
 
 Clifton. 145 
 
 On the rough bush the Hnen white they spread, 
 Or deck with russet leaves the mossy bed. 
 
 Here as I musing take my pensive stand, 
 Whilst evening shadows lengthen o'er the land. 
 O'er the wide landscape cast the circling eye. 
 How ardent memory prompts the fervid sigh ! 
 O'er the historic page my fancy runs, 
 Of Britain's fortunes — of her valiant sons : 
 Yon castle, erst of Saxon standards proud. 
 Its neighbouring meadows dyed with Danish blood. 
 Then of its later fate a view I take : 
 Here the sad monarch lost his hope's last stake, 
 When Rupert bold, of well-achieved renown, 
 Stain'd all the fame his former prowess won. 
 But for its ancient use no more employ'd, 
 Its walls all moulder'd and its gates destroy'd. 
 In history's roll it still a shade retains. 
 Though of the fortress scarce a stone remains. 
 Eager at length I strain each aching limb, 
 And breathless now the mountain's summit climb : 
 Here does attention her fix'd gaze renew. 
 And of the city takes a nearer view. 
 The yellow Avon, creeping at my side, 
 In sullen billows rolls a muddy tide; 
 No sportive Naiads on her streams are seen, 
 No cheerful pastimes deck the gloomy scene; 
 Fix'd in a stupor by the cheerless plain, 
 For fairy flights the fancy toils in vain ; 
 P'or though her waves, by commerce richly bless 'd, 
 Roll to her shores the treasures of the West, 
 Though her broad banks trade's busy aspect wears, 
 She seems unconsious of the wealth she bears.
 
 146 ChattertoJi's Poems. 
 
 Near to her banks, and under Brandon's hill, 
 
 There wanders Jacob's ever-murmuring rill, 
 
 That, pouring forth a never-failing stream. 
 
 To the dim eye restores the steady beam. 
 
 Here, too (alas ! though tottering now with age), 
 
 Stands our deserted, solitary stage, 
 
 Where oft our Powell, Nature's genuine son, 
 
 With tragic tones the fix'd attention won : 
 
 Fierce from his lips his angry accents fly — 
 
 Fierce as the blast that tears the northern sky ; 
 
 Like snows that trickle down hot /Etna's steep. 
 
 His passion melts the soul, and makes us weep : 
 
 But oh how soft his tender accents move ! 
 
 Soft as the cooings of the turtle's love —   
 
 Soft as the breath of morn in bloom of spring. 
 
 Dropping a lucid tear on zephyr's wing. 
 
 O'er Shakespeare's varied scenes he wander'd wide ; 
 
 In Macbeth's form all human power defied; 
 
 In shapeless Richard's dark and fierce disguise, 
 
 In dreams he saw the murder'd train arise; 
 
 Then what convulsions shook his trembling bieast, 
 
 And strew'd with pointed thorns his bed of rest! 
 
 But fate has snatch'd thee — early was thy doom : 
 
 How soon enclosed within the silent tomb ! 
 
 No more our raptured eyes shall meet thy form. 
 
 No more thy melting tones our bosoms warm; 
 
 Without thy powerful aid, the languid stage 
 
 No more can please at once and mend the age. 
 
 Yes, thou art gone ! and thy beloved remains 
 
 Yon sacred old cathedral wall contains; 
 
 There docs the muffled bell our grief reveal. 
 
 And solemn organs swell the mournful peal; 
 
 Whilst hallo w'd dirges fill the holy shrine — 
 
 Deserved tribute to such worth as thine.
 
 An Elegy. 147 
 
 No more at Clifton's scenes my sti'ains o'erflow, 
 For the Muse, drooping at this tale of woe, 
 Slackens the strings of her enamour'd lyre — 
 The flood of gushing grief puts out her fire : 
 Else would she sing the deeds of other times, 
 Of saints and heroes sung in monkish rhymes; 
 Else would her soaring fancy burn to stray, 
 And through the cloister'd aisle would take her way, 
 Where sleep (ah ! mingling with the common dust) 
 The sacred bodies of the brave and just. 
 But vain the attempt to scan that holy lore. 
 These softening sighs forbid the Muse to soar. 
 So, treading back the steps I just now trod. 
 Mournful and sad, I seek my lone abode. 
 
 AN ELEGY, 
 
 ON THE MUCH-LAMENTED DEATH OF WM. BECKFORD, ESQ., 
 LATE LORD MAYOR OF AND REPRESENTATIVE IN PARLIA- 
 MENT FOR THE CITY OF LONDON. 
 
 I. 
 
 Weep on, ye Britons! give your gen'ral Tear; 
 
 But hence, ye venal — hence each titled Slave ! 
 An honest pang should wait on Beckford's Bier, 
 
 And patriot Anguish mark the Patriot's Grave. 
 
 II. 
 When like the Roman to his Field retired, 
 
 'Twas you (surrounded by unnumber'd Foes) 
 Who call'd him forth, his Services required. 
 
 And took from Age the Blessing of Repose.
 
 148 Chattcrtons Poems. 
 
 III. 
 
 With soul impell'd by Virtue's Sacred Flame, 
 To stem the Torrent of corruption's Tide, 
 
 He came, heav'n fraught with Liberty! he came, 
 And nobly in his Country's Service died. 
 
 IV. 
 
 In the last awful, the departing Hour, 
 
 When hfe's poor Lamp more faint and fainter grew; 
 As Mem'ry feebly exercis'd her pow'r, 
 
 He only felt for Liberty and you. 
 
 V. 
 
 He view'd Death's Arrow with a Christian Eye, 
 With firmness only to a Christian known ; 
 
 And nobly gave your Miseries that sigh 
 With which he never gratified his own. 
 
 VI. 
 Thou Breathing Sculpture, celebrate his fame. 
 
 And give his Laurel everlasting Bloom ; 
 Record his worth while Gratitude has name, 
 
 And teach succeeding ages from his Tomb. 
 
 VII. 
 The Sword of Justice cautiously he sway'd, 
 His hand for ever held the balance right; 
 Each venial Fault with Pity he survey'd, 
 But MURDER found no MERCY in his sight. 
 
 VIII. 
 He knew, when flatterers besiege a Throne, 
 Truth seldom reaches to a Monarch's Ear; 
 
 Knew, IF OPPRESS'D A LOYAL PEOPLE GROAN, 
 
 'Tis not the courtier's Interest HE SHOULD HEAR.
 
 A71 Elegy. 149 
 
 IX. 
 
 Hence honest to his Prince his manly Tongue 
 The PUBLIC WRONG and LOYALTY convey'd, 
 
 While TITLED TREMBLERS, ev'ry Nerve unstrung, 
 Look'd all around, confounded and dismay'd ; 
 
 X. 
 Look'd all around, astonish'd to behold 
 
 (Train'd up to Flatt'ry from their early Youth) 
 An ARTLESS, FEARLESS Citizen unfold 
 
 To ROYAL Ears a MORTIFYING Truth. 
 
 XI. 
 Titles to him no pleasures could impart, 
 
 No bribes his rigid Virtue could controul ; 
 The Star could never gain upon his Heart, 
 
 Nor turn the Tide of Honour in his soul. 
 
 XII. 
 For this his Name our Hist'ry shall adorn. 
 
 Shall soar on Fame's wide pinions all sublime. 
 Till Heaven's own bright and never-dying morn 
 
 Absorbs our little particle of Time. 
 
 13- 
 
 Far other Fate the Venal Crew shall find, 
 Who sigh for pomp, or languish after strings ; 
 
 And sell their native probity of mind, 
 
 For Bribes from Statesmen, or for Smiles from 
 
 Kings. 
 
 14. 
 
 And here a long inglorious list of names 
 
 On my disturb'd Imagination crowd; 
 O ! let them perish (loud the muse exclaims,) 
 
 Consign'd for ever to oblivion's cloud.
 
 150 Chatierton^s Poems. 
 
 15- 
 
 "White be the page that celebrates his Fame, 
 "Nor let one mark of infamy appear; 
 
 " Let not the Villain's mingle with his name, 
 "Let Indignation stop the swelling Tear. 
 
 16. 
 "The swelling Tear should plenteous descend, 
 
 "The deluged Eye should give the Heart relief; 
 "Humanity should melt for nature's Friend, 
 
 "In all the richest Luxury of Grief." 
 
 17- 
 He, as a Planet with unceasing Ray, 
 
 Is seen in one unvaried course to move. 
 Through Life pursued, but one illustrious Way, 
 
 And all his orbit was his Country's Love. 
 
 18. 
 But he is gone ! — And now, alas ! no more 
 
 His generous Hand neglected Worth redeems; 
 No more around his mansion shall the Poor 
 
 Bask in his warm, his charitable Beams. 
 
 19. 
 No more his grateful countrymen shall hear 
 
 His manly voice, in martyr'd freedom's cause; 
 No more the courtly sycophant shall fear 
 
 His poignant Lash for violated Laws. 
 
 20. 
 Yet say, STERN Virtue, who'd not wish to die 
 
 Thus greatly struggling, a whole Land to save? 
 Who would not wish, with ardour wish to lie, 
 
 With Beckford^s Honour, in a Beck/Orel's Grave?
 
 An Elegy. 151 
 
 21. 
 
 Not Honour, such as Princes can bestow, 
 Whose breath a Reptile to a Lord can raise ; 
 
 But far the brightest honour here below, 
 A grateful nation's unabating praise. 
 
 22. 
 But see ! where Liberty, on yonder strand. 
 
 Where the cliff rises, and the billows roar. 
 Already takes her melancholy stand. 
 
 To wing her passage to soine happier shore. 
 
 23- 
 Stay, Goddess ! stay, nor leave this once bless'd Isle, 
 
 So many ages thy peculiar care; 
 O stay ! and cheer us ever with thy smile. 
 
 Lest quick we sink in terrible despair. 
 
 24. 
 And lo ! sht listens to the muse's call; 
 
 She comes, once more, to cheer a wretched Land ; 
 Thou, Tyranny, shall tremble to thy fall ! 
 
 To hear her high, her absolute command :^ 
 
 25. 
 " Let not, my sons, the Laws your fathers bought, 
 
 " With such rich oceans of undaunted Blood, 
 " By Traitors, thus be basely set at nought, 
 
 " While at your Hearts you feel the purple flood. 
 
 26. 
 " Unite in firm, in honourable Bands ; 
 
 " Break ev'ry Link of Slav'ry's hateful chain : 
 " Nor let your children, at their fathers' Hands, 
 
 " Demand their birthright, and demand in vain.
 
 152 Chatter tori s Poems. 
 
 27. 
 " Where e'er the murd'rers of their country Hide; 
 
 " Whatever dignities their names adorn ; 
 " It is your Duty — let it be }-our pride, 
 
 " To drag them forth to universal scorn. 
 
 28. 
 " So shall your lov'd, your venerated name, 
 
 " O'er Earth's vast convex gloriously expand ; 
 " So shall your still accumulating fame, 
 
 " In one bright story with your Bec^/ord stand." 
 
 TO MR. HOLLAND.* 
 
 What numbers, Holland, can the Muses find, 
 To sing thy merit in each varied part. 
 
 When action, eloquence, and ease combined. 
 Make Nature but a copy of thy art? 
 
 Majestic as the eagle on the wing. 
 
 Or the young sky-helm'd, mountain-rooted tree ; 
 Pleasing as meadows blushing with the spring. 
 
 Loud as the surges of the Severn sea. 
 
 In Terror's strain, as clanging armies drear; 
 
 In Love, as Jove, too great for mortal praise; 
 In Pity, gentle as the falling tear; 
 
 In all, superior to my feeble lays. 
 
 * This person was an actor of some provincial celebrity, whose performance 
 of various characters at Bristol was for some time the engrossing subject of 
 conversation among the friends of Chatterton.
 
 Elegy. 153 
 
 Black Anger's sudden rise, ecstatic pain ; 
 
 Tormenting Jealousy's self-cankering sting; 
 Consuming Envy, with her yelHng train ; 
 
 Fraud, closely shrouded with the turtle's wing : 
 
 Whatever passions gall the human breast, 
 Play in thy features and await thy nod : 
 
 In thee, by art, the demon stands confcss'd, 
 But Nature on thy soul has stamp'd the god. 
 
 So just thy action with thy part agrees. 
 Each feature does the office of the tongue ; 
 
 Such is thy native elegance and ease, 
 By thee the harsh line smoothly glides along. 
 
 At thy feign'd woe we're really distress'd; 
 
 At thy feign'd tears we let the real fall : 
 By every judge of Nature 'tis confess'd. 
 
 No single part is thine; thou'rt all in all. 
 
 ELEGY. 
 
 Haste, haste ! ye solemn messengers of night, 
 Spread the black mantle on the shrinking plain ; 
 
 But, ah ! my torments still survive the light, 
 The changing seasons alter not my pain. 
 
 Ye variegated children of the spring ; 
 
 Ye blossoms blushing with the pearly dew ; 
 Ye birds that sweetly in the hawthorn sing ; 
 
 Ye flowery meadows, lawns of verdant hue;
 
 154 Chattert oil's Poems. 
 
 Faint are your colours, harsh your love-notes thrill ; 
 
 To me no pleasure Nature now can yield, — 
 Alike the barren rock and woody hill. 
 
 The dark-brown blasted heath, and fruitful field. 
 
 Ye spouting cataracts, ye silver streams, 
 
 Ye spacious rivers, whom the willow shrouds, 
 
 Ascend the bright-crown'd sun's far-shining beams, 
 To aid the mournful tear-distilling clouds. 
 
 't> 
 
 Ye noxious vapours, fall upon my head ; 
 
 Ye writhing adders, round my feet entwine ; 
 Ye toads, your venom in my footpath spread ; 
 
 Ye blasting meteors, upon me shine. 
 
 Ye circling seasons, intercept the year, 
 Forbid the beauties of the spring to rise; 
 
 Let not the life-preserving grain appear ; 
 Let howling tempests harrow up the skies. 
 
 Ye cloud-girt, moss-grown turrets, look no more 
 
 Into the palace of the god of day; 
 Ye loud tempestuous billows, cease to roar — 
 
 In plaintive numbers through the valleys stray. 
 
 Ye verdant-vested trees, forget to grow. 
 Cast ofif the yellow foliage of your pride ; 
 
 Ye softly tinkling rivulets cease to flow. 
 
 Or, swell'd with certain death and poison, glide. 
 
 Ye solemn warblers of the gloomy night, 
 That rest in lightning-blasted oaks the day. 
 
 Through the black mantles take your slow-paced flight, 
 Rending the silent wood with shrieking lay.
 
 On Mr. Akock, of Bristol. i55 
 
 Ye snow-crown'd mountains, lost to mortal eyes, 
 Down to the valleys bend your hoary head; 
 
 Ye livid comets, fire the peopled skies — 
 For — Lady Betty's tabby cat is dead. 
 
 ON MR. ALCOCK, OF BRISTOL, 
 
 AN EXCELLENT MINIATURE PAINTER, 
 
 Ye Nine, awake the chorded shell, 
 Whilst I the praise of Alcock tell 
 
 In truth-dictated lays : 
 On wings of genius take thy flight, 
 O Muse ! above the Olympic height. 
 
 Make Echo sing his praise. 
 
 Nature, in all her glory dress'd. 
 Her flowery crown, her verdant vest. 
 
 Her zone ethereal blue, 
 Receives new charms from Alcock's hand ; 
 The eye surveys, at his command. 
 
 Whole kingdoms at a view. 
 
 His beauties seem to roll the eye, 
 And bid the real arrows fly, 
 
 To wound the gazer's mind ; 
 So taking are his men display'd, 
 That oft the unguarded wounded maid 
 
 Hath wish'd the painter blind.
 
 156 Chaticrton's Poems. 
 
 His pictures like to nature show, 
 The silver fountains seem to flow, 
 
 The hoary woods to nod ; 
 The curHng hair, the flowing dress, 
 The speaking attitude, confess 
 
 The fancy-forming god. 
 
 Ye classic Roman-loving fools, 
 
 Say, could the painters of the schools 
 
 With Alcock's pencil vie? 
 He paints the passions of mankind. 
 And in the face displays the mind. 
 
 Charming the heart and eye. 
 
 Thrice-happy artist, rouse thy powers, 
 And send, in wonder-giving showers. 
 
 Thy beauteous works to view : 
 Envy shall sicken at thy name, 
 Italians leave the chair of Fame, 
 
 And own the seat thy due. 
 
 TO MISS BUSH, OF BRISTOL. 
 
 Before I seek the dreary shore 
 Where Gambia's rapid billows roar, 
 
 And foaming pour along, 
 To you I urge the plaintive strain. 
 And though a lover sings in vain. 
 
 Yet you shall hear the song.
 
 To Miss Bush, of Bristol. 157 
 
 Ungrateful, cruel, lovely maid, 
 Since all my torments were repaid 
 
 With frowns or languid sneers ; 
 With assiduities no more 
 Your captive will your health implore, 
 
 Or tease you with his tears. 
 
 Now to the regions where the sun 
 Does his hot course ot glory run, 
 
 And parches up the ground ; 
 Where o'er the burning cleaving plains, 
 A long eternal dog-star reigns, 
 
 And splendour flames around : 
 
 There will I go, yet not to find 
 A fire intenser than my mind. 
 
 Which burns a constant flame : 
 There will I lose thy heavenly form. 
 Nor shall remembrance, raptured warm, 
 Draw shadows of thy frame. 
 
 In the rough element, the sea, 
 I'll drown the softer subject, thee, 
 
 And sink each lovely charm : 
 No more my bosom shall be torn, 
 No more, by wild ideas borne, 
 
 I'll cherish the alarm. 
 
 Yet, Polly, could thy heart be kind, 
 Soon would my feeble purpose find 
 
 Thy sway within my breast : 
 But hence, soft scenes of painted woe, 
 Spite of the dear delight, I'll go, 
 
 Forget her, and be blest.
 
 ELEGY. 
 
 Joyless I seek the solitary shade 
 
 Where dusky Contemplation vails the scene, 
 The dark retreat (of leafless branches made) 
 
 Where sickening Sorrow wets the yellow'd green.
 
 Elegy. 159 
 
 The darksome ruins of some sacred cell, 
 Where erst the sons of Superstition trod, 
 
 Tottering upon the mossy meadow, tell 
 We better know, but less adore our God. 
 
 Now, as I mournful tread the gloomy cave, 
 
 Through the wide window (once with mysteries dight) 
 
 The distant forest, and the darken'd wave 
 Of the swoln Avon ravishes my sight. 
 
 But see, the thickening vail of evening's drawn, 
 
 The azure changes to a sable blue, 
 The rapturing prospects fly the lessening lawn, 
 
 And Nature seems to mourn the dying view. 
 
 Self-sprighted Fear creeps silent through the gloom, 
 Starts at the rustling leaf, and rolls his eyes ; 
 
 Aghast with horror, when he views the tomb, 
 With every torment of a hell he flies. 
 
 The bubbling brooks in plaintive murmurs roll, 
 The bird of omen, with incessant scream, 
 
 To melancholy thoughts awakes the soiil, 
 
 And lulls the mind to contemplation's dream. 
 
 A dreary stillness broods o'er all the vale, 
 The clouded moon emits a feeble glare ; ' 
 
 Joyless I seek the darkling hill and dale, — 
 Where'er I wander, sorrow still is there.
 
 i6o Chattcrton's Poems. 
 
 ELEGY 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MR. PHILLIPS. 
 
 Assist me, powers of Heaven ! what do I hear? 
 Surprise and horror check the burning tear. 
 Is Phillips dead, and is my friend no more? 
 Gone like the sand divested from the shore ! 
 And is he gone? Can then the Nine refuse 
 To sing with gratitude a favour'd Muse. 
 
 ELEGY. 
 
 No more I hail the morning's golden gleam, 
 No more the wonders of the view I sing; 
 
 Friendship requires a melancholy theme. 
 At her command the awful lyre I string ! 
 
 Now as I wander through this leafless grove, 
 Where tempests howl and blasts eternal rise, 
 
 How shall I teach the chorded shell to move, 
 Or stay the gushing torrent from my eyes? 
 
 Phillips ! great master of the boundless lyre, 
 
 Thee would my soul-rack'd Muse attempt to paint; 
 
 Give me a double portion of thy fire. 
 
 Or all the powers of language are too faint. 
 
 Say, soul unsullied by the filth of vice, 
 
 Say, meek-eyed spirit, where 's thy tuneful shell, 
 
 Which, when the silver stream was lock'd with ice, 
 Was wont to cheer the tempest-ravaged dell?
 
 Elegy. i6i 
 
 Oft as the filmy vail of evening drew 
 
 The thickening shade upon the vivid green, 
 
 Thou, lost in transport at the dying view, 
 Bid'st the ascending Muse display the scene. 
 
 When golden Autumn, wreathed in ripen'd corn. 
 From purple clusters press'd the foamy wine. 
 
 Thy genius did his sallow brows adorn, 
 And made the beauties of the season thine. 
 
 With rustling sound the yellow foliage flies, 
 And wantons with the wind in rapid whirls ; 
 
 The gurgling rivulet to the valley hies. 
 
 Whilst on its bank the spangled serpent curls. 
 
 The joyous charms of Spring delighted saw 
 Their beauties doubly glaring in thy lay; 
 
 Nothing was Spring which Phillips did not draw, 
 And every image of his Muse was May. 
 
 So rose the regal hyacinthal star. 
 
 So shone the verdure of the daisied bed, 
 
 So seem'd the forest glimmering from afar; 
 You saw the real prospect as you read. 
 
 Majestic Summer's blooming flowery pride 
 Next claim'd the honour of his nervous sone; 
 
 He taught the stream in hollow trills to glide, 
 And led the glories of the year along. 
 
 Pale, rugged Winter, bending o'er his tread, 
 His grizzled hair bedropp'd with icy dew; 
 
 His eyes a dusky light, congeal'd and dead, 
 His robe a tinge of bright ethereal blue; 
 
 K
 
 1 62 Chatterton's Poems. 
 
 His train a motley'd, sanguine, sable cloud,- — 
 He limps along the russet, dreary moor. 
 
 Whilst rising whirlwinds, blasting, keen, and loud, 
 Roll the white surges to the sounding shore. 
 
 Nor were his pleasures unimproved by thee; 
 
 Pleasures he has, though horridly deform'd ; 
 The polish'd lake, the silver'd hill we see. 
 
 Is by thy genius fired, preserved, and warm'd. 
 
 The rough October has his pleasures too; 
 
 But I'm insensible to every joy ; 
 Farewell the laurel ! now I grasp the yew, 
 
 And all my little powers in grief employ. 
 
 Immortal shadow of my much-loved friend ! 
 
 Clothed in thy native virtue, meet my soul. 
 When on the fatal bed, my passions bend. 
 
 And curb my floods of anguish as they roll, 
 
 In thee each virtue found a pleasing cell, 
 Thy mind was honour and thy soul divine ; 
 
 With thee did every god of genius dwell, 
 Thou wast the Helicon of all the Nine. 
 
 Fancy, whose various figure-tinctured vest 
 Was ever changing to a diff'erent hue ; 
 
 Her head, with varied bays and flowerets dress'd. 
 Her eyes, two spangles of the morning dew. 
 
 With dancing attitude she swept thy string; 
 
 And now she soars, and now again descends ; 
 And now reclining on the zephyr's wing. 
 
 Unto the velvet-vested mead she bends.
 
 Elegy. 163 
 
 Peace, deck'd in all the softness of the dove, 
 Over thy passions spread her silver plume; 
 
 The rosy vail of harmony and love 
 
 Hung on thy soul in one eternal bloom. 
 
 Peace, gentlest, softest of the virtues, spread 
 Her silver pinions, wet with dewy tears. 
 
 Upon her best distinguish'd poet's head. 
 
 And taught his lyre the music of the spheres 
 
 Temperance, with health and beauty in her train, 
 And massy-muscled strength in graceful pride, 
 
 Pointed at scarlet luxury and pain. 
 And did at every frugal feast preside. 
 
 Black melancholy, stealing to the shade, 
 
 With raging madness, frantic, loud, and dire. 
 
 Whose bloody hand displays the reeking blade, 
 Were strangers to thy heaven-directed lyre. 
 
 Content, who smiles on every frown of fate, 
 Wreathed thy pacific brow and soothed thy ill : 
 
 In thy own virtues and thy genius great. 
 The happy Muse laid every trouble still. 
 
 But see ! the sickening lamp of day retires. 
 And the meek evening shakes the dusky gray ; 
 
 The west faint glimmers with the saffron fires, 
 And like thy life, O Phillips ! dies av/ay. 
 
 Here, stretch'd upon this heaven-ascending hill, 
 I'll wait the horrors of the coming night, 
 
 I'll imitate the gently plaintive rill, 
 And by the glare of lambent vapours write.
 
 164 ChaticrtoiC s Poems. 
 
 Wet with the dew, the yellow hawthorns bow ; 
 
 The rustic whistles through the echoing cave ; 
 Far o'er the lea the breathing cattle low, 
 
 And the full Avon lifts the darken'd wave. 
 
 Now, as the mantle of the evening swells 
 Upon my mind, I feel a thickening gloom. 
 
 Ah ! could I charm by necromantic spells 
 The soul of Phillips from the deathy tomb, 
 
 Then would we wander through this darken'd vale, 
 In converse such as heavenly spirits use; 
 
 And, borne upon the pinions of the gale. 
 Hymn the Creator and exert the Muse. 
 
 But, horror to reflection ! now no more 
 Will Phillips sing, the wonder of the plain. 
 
 When, doubting whether they might not adore, 
 Admiring mortals heard his nervous strain. 
 
 See, see ! the pitchy vapour hides the lawn, 
 Nought but a doleful bell of death is heard, 
 
 Save where, into a blasted oak withdrawn. 
 
 The scream proclaims the curst nocturnal bird. 
 
 Now rest, my Muse ; but only rest to weep 
 A friend made dear by every sacred tie. 
 
 Unknown to me be comfort, peace, or sleep : 
 Phillips is dead — 'tis pleasure, then, to die. 
 
 Few are the pleasures Chatterton e'er knew. 
 Short were the moments of his transient peace ; 
 
 But melancholy robb'd him of those few, 
 And this hath bid all future comfort cease.
 
 The Virghis Choice. 165 
 
 And can the Muse be silent, Phillips gone! 
 
 And am I still alive? My soul, arise! 
 The robe of immortality put on, 
 
 And meet thy Phillips in his native skies. 
 
 TO THE READER. 
 
 Observe, in favour of a hobbling strain. 
 Neat as exported from the parent brain. 
 And each and every couplet I have pennYl, 
 But little labour'd, and I never mend. 
 
 THE VIRGIN'S CHOICE. 
 
 Young Strephon is as fair a swain 
 As e'er a shepherd of the plain 
 
 In all the hundred round ; 
 But Ralph has tempting shoulders, true, 
 And will as quickly buckle to 
 
 As any to be found. 
 
 Young Colin has a comely face, 
 And cudgels with an active grace, 
 
 In everything complete; 
 But Hobbinol can dance divine, — 
 Gods I how his manly beauties shine 
 
 When jigging with his feet! 
 
 Roger is very stout and strong, 
 And Thyrsis sings a heavenly song, 
 
 Soft Giles is brisk and small. 
 Who shall I choose? who shall I shun? 
 Why must I be confined to one? 
 
 Why can't I have them all?
 
 t66 Chattertoii' s Poems. 
 
 FAITH. 
 
 O God, whose thunder shakes the sky, 
 Whose eye this atom globe surveys, 
 
 To thee, my only rock, I fly. 
 
 Thy mercy in thy justice praise. 
 
 The mystic mazes of thy will, 
 The shadows of celestial light. 
 
 Are past the power of human skill, — 
 But what the Eternal acts is right. 
 
 Oh teach me in the trying hour. 
 
 When anguish swells the dewy tear. 
 
 To still my sorrows, own thy power. 
 Thy goodness love, thy justice fear. 
 
 If in this bosom aught but Thee 
 
 Encroaching sought a boundless sway, 
 
 Omniscience could the danger see. 
 And Mercy look the cause away. 
 
 Then why, my soul, dost thou complain.'' 
 Why drooping seek the dark recess? 
 
 Shake off the melancholy chain. 
 For God created all to bless. 
 
 But ah ! my breast is human still; 
 
 The rising sigh, the falling tear. 
 My languid vital's feeble rill. 
 
 The sickness of my soul declare.
 
 On the last Epiphany. 167 
 
 But yet, with fortitude resign'd, 
 I'll thank the inflictor of the blow; 
 
 Forbid the sigh, compose my mind, 
 Nor let the gush of misery flow. 
 
 The gloomy mantle of the night. 
 Which on my sinking spirit steals, 
 
 Will vanish at the morning light, 
 
 Which God, my East, my Sun reveals. 
 
 ON THE LAST EPIPHANY, OR CHRIST 
 COMING TO JUDGMENT. 
 
 Behold ! just coming from above, 
 The Judge, with majesty and love ! 
 The sky divides, and rolls away, 
 T' admit him through the realms of day. 
 The sun, astonish'd, hides its face. 
 The moon and stars with wonder gaze 
 At Jesus' bright superior rays ! 
 Dread lightnings flash, and thunders roar. 
 And shake the earth and briny shore ; 
 The trumpet sounds at heaven's command, 
 And pierceth through the sea and land ; 
 The dead in each now hear the voice, 
 The sinners fear and saints rejoice ; 
 For now the awful hour is come 
 When every tenant of the tomb 
 Must rise, and take his everlasting doom.
 
 1 68 Chattaion'' s Poems. 
 
 THE LAST VERSES WRITTEN BY 
 CHATTERTON.* 
 
 Farewell, Bristolia's dingy piles of brick, 
 Lovers of Mammon, worshippers of Trick ! 
 Ye spurn'd the boy who gave you antique lays. 
 And paid for learning with your empty praise. 
 Farewell, ye guzzling aldermanic fools, 
 By nature fitted for Corruption's tools ! 
 I go to where celestial anthems swell ; 
 But you, when you depart, will sink to Hell. 
 Farewell, my Mother! — cease, my anguish'd soul. 
 Nor let Distraction's billows o'er me roll ! — 
 Have mercy, Heaven ! when here I cease to live, 
 And this last act of wretchedness forgive. 
 
 August 24, 1770, 
 
 * These lines were found in Chatterton's pocket-book after his death. 
 
 6 4 
 
 3 B 
 
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