24.

And lo! she listens to the muse's call;

She comes, once more, to cheer a wretched Land; Thou, TYRANNY, shall tremble to thy fall!

To hear her high, her absolute command:-
25.

"Let not, my sons, the Laws your fathers bought,
"With such rich oceans of undaunted Blood,
"By TRAITORS, thus be basely set at nought,

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"While at your Hearts you feel the purple flood.

26.

Unite in firm, in honorable Bands;

"Break ev'ry Link of Slav'ry's hateful chain: "Nor let your children, at their fathers' Hands, "Demand their birthright, and demand in vain.

27.

"Where e'er the murd'rers of their country Hide; "Whatever dignities their names adorn;

'It is your Duty-let it be your pride,
"To drag them forth to universal scorn.

28.

"So shall your lov'd, your venerated name,
"O'er Earth's vast convex gloriously expand;
"So shall your still accumulating fame,

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In one bright story with your Beckford stand.*

In the Town and Country Magazine for November, 1769, there is a full-length portrait of Alderman Beckford in his magisterial robes. The Alderman, as is well known, was father to the present Wm. Beckford, Esq., the talented author of 'Vathek.' "Chatterton," says Dr. Gregory, "had, it seems, addressed an essay to the patriotic Lord Mayor, W. Beckford, which was so well received that it encouraged him to wait

ELEGY.

HASTE, haste! ye solemn messengers of night,
Spread the black mantle on the shrinking plain;
But, ah! my torments still survive the light,
The changing seasons alter not my pain.

Ye variegated children of the spring;

Ye blossoms blushing with the pearly dew; Ye birds that sweetly in the hawthorn sing; Ye flow'ry meadows, lawns of verdant hue;

Faint are your colours, harsh your love-notes thrill, To me no pleasure Nature now can yield:

Alike the barren rock and woody hill,

The dark-brown blasted heath, and fruitful field.

Ye spouting cataracts, ye silver streams,

Ye spacious rivers, whom the willow shrouds, Ascend the bright-crown'd sun's far-shining beams, To aid the mournful tear-distilling clouds.

upon his Lordship in order to obtain his approbation to address a second letter to him, on the subject of the city remonstrance, and its reception. His Lordship (adds he) received me as politely as a citizen could, and warmly invited me to call on him again. The rest is a secret.' His inclination doubtless led him to espouse the party of opposition; but he complains that no money is to be got on that side the question; interest is on the other side. But he is a poor author that cannot write on both sides. I believe I may be introduced (and if I am not, I'll introduce myself) to a ruling power in the court party.' When Beckford died, he is said to have been almost frantic, and to have exclaimed that he was ruined. The elegy, however, in which he has celebrated him, contains more of frigid praise than of ardent feeling; nor is there a single line which appears to flow from the heart."

Ye noxious vapours, fall upon my head;

Ye writhing adders, round my feet entwine; Ye toads, your venom in my foot-path spread; Ye blasting meteors, upon me shine.

Ye circling seasons, intercept the year,
Forbid the beauties of the spring to rise;
Let not the life-preserving grain appear;

Let howling tempests harrow up the skies.

Ye cloud-girt, moss-grown turrets, look no more
Into the palace of the god of day:

Ye loud tempestuous billows, cease to roar,

In plaintive numbers through the valleys stray.

Ye verdant-vested trees, forget to grow,

Cast off the yellow foliage of your pride:

Ye softly tinkling riv'lets cease to flow,

Or, swell'd with certain death and poison, glide.

Ye solemn warblers of the gloomy night,

That rest in lightning-blasted oaks the day, Through the black mantles take your slow-paced flight, Rending the silent wood with shrieking lay.

Ye snow-crown'd mountains, lost to mortal eyes,
Down to the valleys bend your hoary head;
Ye livid comets, fire the peopled skies-
For-lady Betty's tabby cat is dead.

ON MR. ALCOCK, OF BRISTOL,

AN EXCELLENT MINIATURE PAINTER.

YE Nine, awake the chorded shell,
Whilst I the praise of Alcock tell
In truth-dictated lays:

On wings of genius take thy flight,
O muse! above the Olympic height,
Make Echo sing his praise.

Nature, in all her glory drest,

Her flow'ry crown, her verdant vest,
Her zone etherial blue,

Receives new charms from Alcock's hand;

The eye surveys, at his command,

Whole kingdoms at a view.

His beauties seem to roll the eye,

And bid the real arrows fly,

To wound the gazer's mind;

So taking are his men display'd,

That oft th' unguarded wounded maid

Hath wish'd the painter blind.

His pictures like to nature shew,
The silver fountains seem to flow,

The hoary woods to nod;

The curling hair, the flowing dress,
The speaking attitude, confess
The fancy-forming god.

Ye classic Roman-loving fools,
Say, could the painters of the schools
With Alcock's pencil vie?

He paints the passions of mankind,
And in the face displays the mind,
Charming the heart and eye.

Thrice happy artist, rouse thy powers,
And send, in wonder-giving showers,
Thy beauteous works to view :

Envy shall sicken at thy name,

Italians leave the chair of Fame,

And own the seat thy due.*

This piece was published in the Town and Country Magazine, under the signature of Asaphides: after Chatterton's death, a linendraper of Bristol laid claim to it as his production. But as Chatterton mentions it as his own, in the letter to his relation, Mr. Stephens of Salisbury, his right to it (such as it is) has been considered established.-ED]