of critical writers; a few remarkably interesting and beautiful, I shall select, with the double view of adorning the work, and gratifying the reader.
A poet, whose superior elegance and classical taste do not appear to have met with all the applause they have deserved, thus speaks of Chat
"Yet as with ftreaming eye the sorrowing muse,
"Pale CHATTERTON'S untimely urn bedews;
"Her accents shall arraign the partial care,
"That fhielded not her son from cold despair*."
The following is a beautiful monody written by Mrs. Cowley:
O CHATTERTON! for thee the pensive song I raise,
Thou object of my wonder, pity, envy, praise!
Bright Star of Genius!-torn from life and fame,
My tears, my verse, shall consecrate thy name!
Ye Muses! who around his natal bed
Triumphant sung, and all your influence shed;
APOLLO! thou who rapt his infant breast,
And in his dædal numbers shone confest,
• Pye's Progress of Refinement, Part 2.
Ah! why, in vain, such mighty gifts bestow?
-Why give fresh tortures to the Child of Woe?
Why thus, with barb'rous care, illume his mind,
Adding new sense to all the ills behind?
Thou haggard Poverty! whose cheerless eye
Transforms young Rapture to the pond'rous sigh,
In whose drear cave no Muse e'er struck the lyre,
Nor Bard e'er madden'd with poetic fire;
Why all thy spells for CHATTERTON combine?
His thought creative, why must thou confine?
Subdu'd by thee, his pen no more obeys,
No longer gives the song of ancient days;
Nor paints in glowing tints from distant skies,
Nor bids wild scen'ry rush upon our eyes
Check'd in her flight, his rapid Genius cowers,
Drops her sad plumes, and yields to thee her powers.
Behold him, Muses! see your fav'rite son
The prey of want, ere manhood is begun!
The bosom ye have fill'd with anguish torn
The mind you cherish'd, drooping and forlorn!
And now despair her sable form extends,
Creeps to his couch, and o'er his pillow bends.
Ah, see! a deadly bowl the fiend conceal'd,
Which to his eye with caution is revealed-
Seize it, Apollo!-seize the liquid snare!
Dash it to earth, or dissipate in air!
Stay, hapless Youth! refrain-abhor the draught,
With pangs, with racks, with deep repentance fraught!
Oh, hold! the cup with woe ETERNAL flows,
More-more than Death the pois'nous juice bestows!
In vain!—he drinks-and now the searching fires
Rush through his veins, and writhing he expires!
No sorrowing friend, no sister, parent, nigh,
To sooth his pangs, or catch his parting sigh;
Alone, unknown, the Muse's darling dies,
And with the vulgar dead unnoted lies!
Bright Star of Genius!- torn from life and fame,
My tears, my verse, shall consecrate thy name!
Nor has the Muse of Amwell, been backward in commendation.
And BRISTOL! why thy scenes explore,
And why those scenes so soon resign,
And fail to seek the spot that bore
That wonderous tuneful Youth of thine,
The Bard, whose boasted ancient store
Rose recent from his own exhaustless mine.‡
Though Fortune all her gifts denied,
Though Learning made him not her choice,
The Muse still placed him at her side,
And bade him in her smile rejoice
Description still his pen supplied,
Pathos his thought, and Melody his voice!
This is at least the Author's opinion, notwithstanding all that has hitherto appeared on the other side of the question. The last line alludes to one of the ingenious Mr. Mason in his Elegy to a young Nobleman:
"See from the depths of his exhaustless mine
⚫ His glittering stores the tuneful spendthrift throws."
Conscious and proud of merit high,
Fame's wreath he boldly claim'd to wear; But Fame, regardless, pass'd him by,
Unknown, or deem'd unworth her care : The Sun of Hope forsook his sky;
And all his land look'd dreary, bleak, and bare!
Then Poverty, grim spectre, rose,
And horror o'er the prospect threw
His deep distress too nice to expose;
Too nice for common aid to sue,
A dire alternative he chose,
And rashly from the painful scene withdrew.
Ah! why for Genius' headstrong rage Did Virtue's hand no curb prepare? What boots, poor youth! that now thy page Can boast the public praise to share, The learn'd in deep research engage, And lightly entertain the gentle fair?
Ye, who superfluous wealth command,
O why your kind relief delay'd?
O why not snatch'd his desperate hand?
His foot on Fate's dread brink not stay'd?
What thanks had you your native land
For a new SHAKESPEARE or new MILTON paid!
For me-Imagination's power
Leads oft insensibly my way,
To where, at midnight's silent hour,
The crescent moon's slow-westering ray
Pours full on REDCLIFF'S lofty tower,
And gilds with yellow light its walls of grey.
1
'Midst Toil and Commerce slumbering round,
Lull'd by the rising tide's hoarse roar,
There Frome and Avon willow-crown'd,
I view sad-wandering by the shore,
With streaming tears, and notes of mournful sound,
Too late their hapless Bard, untimely lost, deplore.
The following lines are uncommonly animated and poetical:
If changing times suggest the pleasing hope,
That Bards no more with adverse fortune cope;
That in this alter'd clime, where Arts increase,
And make our polish'd Isle a second Greece;
That now, if Poesy proclaims her Son,
And challenges the wreath by Fancy won;
Both Fame and Wealth adopt him as their heir,
And liberal Grandeur makes his life her care;
From such vain thoughts thy erring mind defend,
And look on CHATTERTON's disastrous end,
Oh, ill-starr'd Youth, whom Nature form'd in vain,
With powers on Pindtts' splendid height to reign!
O dread example of what pangs await
Young Genius struggling with malignant fate!
What could the Muse, who fir'd thy infant frame
With the rich promise of Poetic fame;
Who taught thy hand its magic art to hide,
And mock the insolence of Critic pride;
What could her unavailing cares oppose,
To save her darling from his desperate foes;
From pressing Want's calamitous controul,
And Pride, the fever of the ardent soul?
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