knowledge, procured at the expence of so many years' close study and application to business: for you must know, my HEAD MASTER, a great projector, has taken it into his head to level the church-yard; and by digging and throwing about his clay there, and defacing the stones, makes such confusion among the dead, and will so puzzle me, if he goes on, that no man living will be able to find where to lay them properly, and then he may dig the graves himself; for I foresee, I shall get the ill-will of the parish about it: for even the poor love to bury with their kindred and all's but right that they should. I should be glad, therefore, to know the sense of the public, whether any body has a just right, or needful call to dig in the church-yard, besides

:

"FULLFORD, the Grave-digger.

"P. S. As I intend dropping the business of Gravedigger, now rendered so very troublesome, I propose renting my old spot of ground (the church-yard) when the green turf is all removed, and, for decency's sake, will prevent the naked appearance of it, by planting potatoes, raising some fine beds of onions, &c. as the mould is fat and good.-And I see no reason why I may not get a profitable job out of the church, as well as my GREAT MASTER,-as I find that's the game now-a-days, tho' decency, convenience, or the like, be the pretence."

This course of research might be successfully pursued, but enough has been done to point out a valuable source of reference to the future editor of the works of Chatterton. T.

FROM

CHATTERTON'S POEMS.

"THE MYNSTRELLES SONGE, IN ÆLLA.

"O! synge unto mie roundelaie,

O droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,

Lycke a reynyngei ryver bee;

Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys deathe-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Blacke his crynej as the wyntere nighte,
Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe,
Roddek hys face as the mornynge lyghte,
Calel he lyes ynne the grave belowe ;
Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys deathe-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Swotem hys tyngue as the throstles note,

Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee,

Deften hys taboure, codgelle stote,

O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree :

Mie love is dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,

Alle underre the wyllowe tree.

i

Reynynge, running.

Cryne, hair.

k Rodde, complexion.

Cale, cold.

m Swote, sweet.

n Defte, neat.

Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,

In the briered delle belowe;

Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge,
To the nyghte-mares as heie goe;
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude;
Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie,
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude;
Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys deathe-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Heere, uponne mie true loves grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nee one hallieo Seyncte to save
Al the celnessp of a mayde.

Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,

Alle under the wyllowe tree.

Wythe mie hondes I'lle dented the brieres

Rounde his hallie corse to gre,r

Ouphantes fairie, lyghte youre fyres,

Heere mie boddie stylle schalle bee.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys deathe-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne,

Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;

Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne,

Daunce bie nete,t or feaste by daie.
Mie love ys dedde

Gon to hys deathe-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes,u
Bere mee to yer leathallev tyde.

I die; I comme; mie true love waytes:
Thos the damselle spake and dyed.”

"ELEGY, TO THE MEMORY OF MR. THOMAS PHILLIPS, OF FAIRFORD.

"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 thro' this leafless grove,
Where the dark vapours of the ev❜ning rise,
How shall I teach the chorded shell to move;
Or stay the gushing torrents from my eyes?

Phillips, great master of the boundless lyre,
Thee would the grateful muse attempt to paint;

Give me a double portion of thy fire,

Or all the pow'rs of language are too faint.

Nete, nighte. u Reytes, waterflags. ▾ Leathalle, deadly.

Say what bold number, what immortal line
The image of thy genius can reflect?

O, lend my pen what animated thine,

To shew thee in thy native glories deckt.

The joyous charms of Spring delighted saw
Their beauties doubly glaring in thy lay :
Nothing was Spring which Phillips did not draw,
And ev'ry image of his muse was May.

So rose the regal hyacinthal star;

So shone the pleasant rustic daisied bed;
So seem'd the woodlands less'ning from afar
You saw the real prospect as you read.

;

Majestic Summer's blooming flow'ry pride
Next claim'd the honour of his nervous song;
He taught the stream in hollow trills to glide,
And lead the glories of the year along.

When golden Autumn, wreath'd 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.

Pale rugged Winter bending o'er his tread,
His grizzled hair bedropt with icy dew;
His eyes, a dusky light, congeal'd and dead;
His robe, a tinge of bright etherial blue :

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.