SLY DICK.

From a copy in the hand writing of Sir Herbert Croft, in the volume of Chatterton's works purchased by Mr. Waldron at the sale of Sir Herbert's Library. He says "this was written by Chatterton at about eleven: as well as the following Hymn."

Sharp was the frost, the wind was high
And sparkling Stars bedeckt the Sky,
Sly Dick in arts of cunning skill'd,
Whose Rapine all his pockets fill'd,

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 strait 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 stor'd wealthy room,

Well stor'd with cloth and stockings too,
Which I suppose will do for you,

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
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.

***Cætera desunt. ***

A HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS DAY.

From a Copy by Sir Herbert Croft, in the same volume.

Almighty Framer of the Skies!
O 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.

The Sun of Glory gleam'd the Ray,
Refin'd the Darkness into Day,

And bid the Vapors fly:

Impell'd by his eternal Love

He left his Palaces above

To cheer our gloomy Sky.

How shall we celebrate the day,

When God appeared 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:

Tho' in a human walk he trod

Still was the Man Almighty God
In Glory all his own.

Despis'd, oppress'd, the Godhead bears,
The Torments of this Vale of tears;
Nor bid his Vengeance rise,

He saw the Creatures he had made,
Revile his Power, his Peace invade;

He saw with Mercy's Eyes.