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His hopes of obtaining eminence as a political | lyric and heroic poems, pastorals, epistles, ballads, writer now became extravagantly sanguine, and &c. Sublimity and beauty pervade many of them; he already seems to have considered himself a and they display wonderful powers of imagination man of considerable public importance. "My and facility of composition; yet, says Dr. Aikin, company," he says, in a letter to his sister, "is there is also much of the commonplace flatness courted everywhere; and could I humble myself and extravagance, that might be expected from a to go into a compter, could have had twenty places juvenile writer, whose fertility was greater than before now; but I must be among the great; state his judgment, and who had fed his mind upon matters suit me better than commercial." These stores collected with more avidity than choice. bright prospects, about July, appear to have been The haste and ardour, with which he pursued his suddenly clouded; and, after a short career of various literary designs, was in accordance with dissipation, which kept pace with his hopes, he his favourite maxim, “that God had sent his creafound that he had nothing to expect from the pa- tures into the world with arms long enough to tronage of the great; and, to escape the scene of reach any thing, if they would be at the trouble of has mortification, made an unsuccessful attempt to extending them." obtain the post of surgeon's-mate to the coast of Africa. It is less certain to what extent he was now employed by the booksellers, than that he feit the idea of dependence upon them insupportable, and soon fell into such a state of indigence as to be reduced to the want of necessary food. Such was his pride, however, that when, after a fast of three days, his landlady invited him to dinner, he refused the invitation as an insult, assuring her he was not hungry. This is the last act recorded of his life; a few hours afterward, he swallowed a dose of arsenic, and was found dead the next morning, August the 25th, 1770, surrounded by fragments of numerous manuscripts, which he appeared to have destroyed. His sui-magazines, were all the effervescences of the same cide took place in Brook-street, Holborn, and he was interred, in a shell, in the burying-ground of Shoe lane workhouse. This melancholy catastrophe is heightened by the fact, that Dr. Fry, head of St. John's College, Oxford, had just gone to Bristol, for the purpose of assisting Chatterton, when he was there informed of his death.

In 1778, a miscellaneous volume of the avowed writings of Chatterton was published; and, in 1803, an edition of his works appeared, in three volumes, octavo, with an account of his life, by Dr. Gregory, from whom we have before quoted. The general character of his productions has been well appreciated by Lord Orford, who, after expatiating upon his quick intuition, his humour, his vein of satire, the rapidity with which he seized all the topics of conversation, whether of politics, literature, or fashion, remarks, Nothing in Chatterton can be separated from Chatterton. His noblest flight, his sweetest strain, his grossest ribaldry, and his most commonplace imitations of the productions of

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ungovernable impulse, which, cameleon-like, imbibed the colours of all it looked on. It was Ossian, or a Saxon monk, or Gray, or Smollett, or Junius; and if it failed most in what it most affected to be, a poet of the fifteenth century, it was because it could not imitate what had not existed." In person, Chatterton is said to have been, like his genius, premature; he had, says his biographer, a manliness and dignity beyond his years, and there was a something about him uncommonly prepossessing. His most remarkable feature was his eyes, which, though gray, were uncommonly piercing; when he was warmed in argument, or otherwise, they sparkled with fire; and one eye, it is said, was still more remarkable than the other.

The character of Chatterton has been sufficiently developed in the course of the preceding memoir; his ruling passion, we have seen, was literary fame; and it is doubtful whether his death was not rather occasioned through fear of losing the reputation he had already acquired, than despair of being able to obtain a future subsistence. This is rendered at least plausible, by the fact of his having received pecuniary assistance from Mr. Hamilton,

The controversy respecting the authenticity of the poems attributed to Rowley is now at an end; though there are still a few, perhaps, who may side with Dean Milles and others, against the host of writers, including Gibbon, Johnson, and the two Wartons, who ascribe the entire authorship to Chatterton. The latter have, perhaps, come to a conclusion, which is not likely to be again disputed, viz. that however extraordinary it was for Chatterton to produce them in the eighteenth century, it was impossible that Rowley could have written them in the fifteenth. But, whether Chatterton was or was not the author of the poems ascribed to Rowley, his transcendent genius must ever be the subject of wonder and admiration. The eulogy of his friends, and the opinions of the controversialists respecting him, are certainly too extravagant. Dean Milles prefers Rowley to Ho-senior, the proprietor of the Critical Review, not mer, Virgil, Spencer, and Shakspeare; Mr. Malone" believes Chatterton to have been the greatest genius that England has produced since the days of Shakspeare;" and Mr. Croft, the author of Love and Madness, asserts, that "no such human being, at any period of life, has ever been known, or possibly ever will be known." This enthusiastic praise is not confined to the critical writers; the British muse has paid some of her most beautiful tributes to the genius and memory of Chatterton. The poems of Rowley, as published by Dean Milles, consist of pieces of all the principal classes of poetical composition: tragedies,

long before his death, with a promise of more; that he was employed by his literary friends, almost to the last hour of his existence; and that he was aware of the suspicions existing that himself and Rowley were the same. Though he neither confessed nor denied this, it was evident that his conduct was influenced by some mystery, known only to himself; he grew wild, abstracted, and incohe rent, and a settled gloominess at length took possession of his countenance, which was a presage of his fatal resolution. He has been accused of libertinism, but there are no proofs of this during his residence either at London or Bristol; though

many of his productions show a laxity of principle which might justify the supposition. The best qualities in his character were the negative ones of temperance and affection for his family, to whom he sent small presents out of his first gains, and always spoke of their welfare as one of the principal ends of his exertions. But what deeper affliction could he have brought upon them than that

caused by the last act of his life? His sister says, that "he was a lover of truth from the earliest dawn of reason;" yet his life was one continued career of deception. He is to be pitied for his misfortunes, and admired for his genius; but, with Kirke White in our remembrance, we could wish to forget all else that belonged to Chatterton.

BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE;

OR, THE DETHE OF SYR CHARLES BAWDIN.

THE featherd songster chaunticleer

Han wounde hys bugle horne,

And tolde the earlie villager

The commynge of the morne :

Kynge Edwarde sawe the ruddie streakes
Of lyghte eclypse the greie;
And herde the raven's crokynge throte
Proclayme the fated daie.

"Thou'rt ryght," quod he, "for, by the Godde
That syttes enthroned on hyghe!
Charles Bawdin, and hys fellowes twaine,
To-daie shall surelie die."

Thenne wythe a jugge of nappy ale

Hys knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite;

"Goe tell the traytour, thatt to-daie
Hee leaves thys mortall state."

Syr Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe
Wythe harte brymm-fulle of woe;
Hee journey'd to the castle-gate,

And to Syr Charles dydd goe.

But whenne hee came, hys children twaine, And eke hys lovynge wyfe,

Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore,

For goode Syr Charleses lyfe.

"O goode Syr Charles!" sayd Canterlone,

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Thenne Maister Canynge saughte the kynge,
And felle down onne hys knee;

"I'm come," quod hee," unto your grace,
To move your clemencye."

"Thenne," quod the kynge," youre tale speke out, You have been much oure friende :

Whatever youre request may bee,
Wee wylle to ytte attende."

"My nobile leige! alle my request
Ys for a nobile knyghte,

Who, though mayhap hee has donne wronge,
He thoughte ytte stylle was ryghte:

"Hee has a spouse and children twaine;
Alle rewyn'd are for aie,

Yff that you are resolved to lett
Charles Bawdin die to-daie."

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Speke boldlie, manne," sayd brave Syr Charles, Christ's vicarr only knowes ne synne,

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"Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne heaven Thatt dydd mee being gyve

I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade

Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve.

"By Marie, and alle seinctes ynne heaven,
Thys sunne shall be hys laste."
Thenne Canynge dropp'd a brinie teare,
And from the presence paste.

Wyth herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief,
Hee to Syr Charles dydd goe,

And sat hymm downe uponne a stoole,
And teares beganne to flowe.

"Wee all must die," quod brave Syr Charles; "Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne; Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate

Of all wee mortall menne.

"Say why, my friende, thie honest soul Runns over att thyne eye;

Ys ytte for my most welcome doome

Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?"

Quod godlie Canynge, "I doe weepe,
Thatt thou so soone must die,

And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe;
"Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye."

Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye From godlie fountaines sprynge; Dethe I despise, and alle the power Of Edwarde, traytour kynge.

"Whan through the tyrant's welcome means I shall resigne my lyfe,

The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde
For bothe my sonnes and wyfe.

"Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne,

Thys was appointed mee;

Shall mortall manne repyne or grudge
What Godde ordeynes to bee?

"Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode,
Whan thousands dyed arounde;

Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode
Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde:

Howe dydd I knowe thatt every darte,
Thatt cutte the airie waie,
Myghte nott fynde passage toe my harte,
And close myne eyes for aie?

And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe,
Looke wanne and bee dysmayde?

Ne! fromm my herte flie childyshe feere;
Bee alle the manne display'd.

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I make no doubte butt hee ys gone,
Where soone I hope to goe;
Where wee for ever shall bee blest,
From oute the reech of woe.

Hee taughte mee justice and the laws
Wyth pitie to unite ;

And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe
The wronge cause from the ryghte:
"Hee taughte mee wythe a prudent hande
To feede the hungrie poore,
Ne lett mye sarvants dryve awaie
The hungrie fromm my doore :

"And none can saye but alle mye lyfe
I have hys wordyes kept;
And summ'd the actyonns of the daie
Eche nyghte before I slept.

"I have a spouse, goe aske of her
Yff I defyled her bedde;

I have a kynge, and none can laie
Black treason onne my hedde.

"Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve,
Fromm fleshe I dydd refrayne;
Whie should I thenne appeare dismay'd
To leave thys worlde of payne?
"Ne, hapless Henrie! I rejoyce
I shall ne see thye dethe;
Most willynglie ynne thye just cause
Doe I resign my brethe.

"Oh, fickle people! rewyn'd londe !
Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe;
Whyle Richard's sonnes exalt themselves,
Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe.
"Saie, were ye tyred of godlie peace,

And godlie Henrie's reigne,

Thatt you dydd choppe your easie daies

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For those of bloude and peyne?

Whatte though I onne a sledde be drawne,

And mangled by a hynde,

I doe defye the traytour's power,
Hee can ne harm my mynde;

"Whatte though, uphoisted onne a pole,
My lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre,
And ne ryche monument of brasse
Charles Bawdin's name shall bear;

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Yett ynne the holie book above, Whyche tyme can't eate awaie, There wythe the sarvants of the Lord Mye name shall lyve for aie.

"Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne

I leave thys mortall lyfe :

Farewell vayne worlde, and all that's deare, Mye sonnes and lovynge wyfe!

"Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes
As e'er the moneth of Maie;

Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve,
Wyth my dere wyfe to staie."

Quod Canynge, ""Tys a goodlie thynge
To bee prepared to die;

And from thys worlde of peyne and grefe
To Godde ynne heaven to flie."

And nowe the belle began to tolle,
And claryonnes to sound;

Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete
A prauncyng onne the grounde:

And just before the officers

His lovynge wyfe came ynne, Weepynge unfeigned teers of woe, Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne.

"Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere,
Ynn quiet lett mee die ;

Praie Godde that every Christian soule
Maye looke onne dethe as I.

"Sweet Florence! why these brinie teers? Theye washe my soule awaie,

And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe,
Wyth thee, sweete dame, to staie.

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"Tys butt a journie I shalle goe
Untoe the lande of blysse;
Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love,
Receive thys holie kysse."

Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie,
Tremblynge these wordyes spoke,
"Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge!
Mye herte ys welle nyghe broke :

"Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe?

The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke,
Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe."

And nowe the officers came ynne
To brynge Syr Charles awaie,
Who turnedd to hys lovynge wyfe,
And thus to her dydd saie :

"I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe;

Truste thou ynne Godde above,
And teache thy sonnes to feare the Lorde,

And ynne theyre hertes hym love:
"Teache them to runne the nobile race

Thatt I theyre fader runne;

Florence should dethe thee take-adieu!
Yee officers, leade onne.

Thenne Florence raved as anie madde,

And dydd her tresses tere;

"Oh, staie mye husbande, lorde, and lyfe !"-

Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare.

"Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loude,
Shee fellen onne the floore;
Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte,
And march'd fromm oute the dore.
Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne,

Wythe lookes fulle brave and sweete;
Lookes thatt enshone ne moe concern
Thanne anie ynne the strete.

Before hym went the council-menne,
Ynne scarlett robes and golde,
And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne,
Muche glorious to beholde :

The Freers of Seincte Augustyne next
Appeared to the syghte,

Alle cladd ynne homelie russett weedes,
Of godlie monkysh plyghte:

Ynne diffraunt partes a godlie psaume

Moste sweetlie theye dydd chaunt; Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came, Who tuned the strunge bataunt.

Thenne fyve-and-twenty archers came ;
Echone the bowe dydd bende,
From rescue of Kynge Henrie's friends
Syr Charles forr to defend.

Bolde as a lyon came Syr Charles,

Drawne onne a cloth-ladye sledde,
Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges whyte,
Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde:

Behynde hym fyve-and-twenty moe
Of archers strong and stoute,
Wyth bended bowe echone ynne hande,
Marched ynne goodlie route:

Seincte Jameses Freers marched next,
Echone hys parte dydd chaunt;
Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came,
Who tuned the strunge bataunt :

Thenne came the maior and eldermenne,
Ynne clothe of scarlett deck't;
And theyre attendyng menne echone,
Lyke casterne princes trick't:

And after them a multitude

Of citizenns dydd thronge;

The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes
As hee dydd passe alonge.

And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse,
Syr Charles dydd turne and saie,

"O Thou thatt savest manne fromme synne,
Washe mye soule clean thys daie!"
Att the grete mynster wyndowe sat
The kynge ynne myckle state,
To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge

To hys most welcom fate

Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe,
Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare,
The brave Syr Charles hee dydd stande uppe,
And thus hys wordes declare:

"Thou seest me, Edwarde! tray tour vile!
Exposed to infamie;

Butt bee assured, disloyall manne!

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I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee.

Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude,

Thou wearest nowe a crowne;

And hast appoynted mee to die,

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Kynge Edwarde's soule rush'd to hys face,
Ilee turn'd hys hedde awaie,
And to hys broder Gloucester
Hee thus dydd speke and saie:

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To hym that soe-much-dreaded dethe
Ne ghastlie terrors brynge,

Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe,
Hee's greater thanne a kynge!"

Soe lett hym die!" Duke Richarde sayde;
"And maye echone oure foes

Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe,
And feede the carryon crowes.'
And nowe the horses gentlie drewe
Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle;
The axe dydd glysterr ynne the sunne,
Hys pretious bloude to spylle.

Syr Charles dydd uppe the scaffold goe,
As uppe a gilded carre

Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs
Gayn'd ynne the bloudie warre:

And to the people hee dyd saie,
"Beholde you see mee dye,
For servynge loyally mye kynge,
Mye kynge most ryghtfullie.

"As longe as Edwarde rules thys lande,
Ne quiet you wylle knowe:

Your sonnes and husbandes shalle bee slayne.

And brookes wythe bloude shalle flowe.

"You leave your goode and lawfulle kynge,
Whenne ynne adversitye;

Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke,
And for the true cause dye."

Thenne hee, wyth preestes, uponne hys knees,
A prayer to Godde dyd make,
Beseechynge hym unto hymselfe
Hys partynge soule to take.

Thenne kneelynge downe, hee layde hys hedde,
Most seemlie onne the blocke;
Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once
The able heddes-manne stroke:

And oute the bloude beganne to flowe,
And rounde the scaffolde twyne;

And teares, enow to washe't awaie,
Dydd flowe fromme each man's eyne.

The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre

Ynnto foure partes cutte;

And everye parte, and eke hys hedde,
U ponne a pole was putte.

One parte dyd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle,
One onne the mynster-tower,
And one from off the castle-gate
The crowen dydd devoure:

The other onne Seyncte Powle's goode gate,
A dreery spectacle;

Ilys hedde was placed onne the hyghe crosse,
Yane hyghe strete most nobile.

Thus was the ende of Bawdin's fate
Godde prosper longe oure kynge,

And grante hee maye, wyth Bawdin's soule,
Ynne Heaven Godde's mercie synge!

MYNSTRELLES SONGE.

O! synge untoe mie roundelaie,
O droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
Lycke a rennynge ryver bee;
Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte,
Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe,
Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte,
Cald he lyes ynne the grave belowe;
Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Swote hys tongue as the throstles note,
Quycke ynn dáunce as thought canne bee,
Defe hys taboure, codgelle stote,

O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree:
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Harke, the ravenne flappes hys wynge,

Ynne 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 death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

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

Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Heere uponne mie true love's grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nee on hallie seyncte to save
Al the celness of a mayde.

Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Wythe mie hondes I'll dente the brieres
Rounde his hallie corse to gre,
Ouphante fairie, lyghte your fyres,
Heere mie bodie still schalle bee.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne,
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie ;
Lyfe and alle yts goode I scorne,
Daunce bie nete, or feaste bie daie.
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

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

I die I comme; mie true love waytes.— Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.

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