How shall we celebrate his Name, Who groan'd beneath a Life of shame In all Afflictions try'd;

The Soul is raptur'd to conceive

A Truth, which Being must believe,
The God Eternal dy'd.

My Soul 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!

X.Y.

A POSTATE WILL.

(FROM LOVE AND MADNESS.)

It is transcribed, says Sir Herbert Croft, from an old pocketbook in his mother's possession. It appears to be his first, perhaps his only, copy of it; and is evidently his hand writing. By the date he was eleven years and almost five months old. It is not the most extraordinary performance in the world: but, from the circumstance of Chatterton's parentage and education, it is unlikely, if not impossible, that he should have met with any assistance or correction; whereas, when we read the ode which Pope wrote at twelve, and another of Cowley at thirteen, we are apt to suspect a parent, friend, or tutor, of an amiable dishonesty, of which we feel, perhaps, that we should be guilty. Suspicions of this nature touch not Chatterton. He knew no tutor, no friend, no parent-at least no parent who could correct or assist him.

This poem appears to have been aimed at somebody, who had formerly been a Methodist, and was lately promoted (to the dignity, perhaps, of opening a pew or a grave; for Chatterton was the sexton's son) in the established church.

In days of old, when Wesley's power
Gather'd new strength by every hour;

Apostate Will, just sunk in trade,
Resolv'd his bargain should be made;
Then strait 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 declar'd,
How hardly with him matters far'd,
Begg'd him next morning for 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 strait 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 every where 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,
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 strait he ran,
And thus address'd the rev'rend man:
I was a Methodist, tis true;

With penitence I turn to you.
O that it were your bounteous will
That I the vacant place might fill!

With justice I'd myself acquit,
Do every thing that's right and fit.
The curate straitway gave consent-
To take the place he quickly went.
Accordingly he took the place,
And keeps it with dissembled grace,

April 14th, 1764.