Fancy, whose various figure-tinctured vest
Was ever changing to a different hue;

Her head, with varied bays and flow'rets drest,
Her eyes, two spangles of the morning dew.

With dancing attitude she swept thy string;
And now she soars, and now again descends;
And now reclining on the zephyr's wing,
Unto the velvet-vested mead she bends.

Peace, deck'd in all the softness of the dove,
Over thy passions spread her silver plume ;
The rosy veil of harmony and love
Hung on thy soul in one eternal bloom.

Peace, gentlest, softest of the virtues, spread

Her silver pinions, wet with dewy tears,
Upon her best distinguished poet's head,

And taught his lyre the music of the spheres.

Temp'rance, with health and beauty in her train, And massy-muscled strength in graceful pride, Pointed at scarlet luxury and pain,

And did at every frugal feast preside.

Black melancholy stealing to the shade

With raging madness, frantic, loud, and dire, Whose bloody hand displays the reeking blade, Were strangers to thy heaven-directed lyre.

s In the first draught, cheerful.

Content, who smiles in every frown of fate,
Wreath'd thy pacific brow and sooth'd thy ill:"
In thy own virtues and thy genius great,
The happy muse laid every trouble still.

But see! the sick'ning lamp of day retires, 10
And the meek evening shakes the dusky grey;
The west faint glimmers with the saffron fires,
And like thy life, O Phillips! dies away.

Here, stretched upon this heaven-ascending hill,
I'll wait the horrors of the coming night,
I'll imitate the gently-plaintive rill,

And by the glare of lambent vapours write.

Wet with the dew the yellow hawthorns bow ;*
The rustic whistles through the echoing cave;"

Far o'er the lea the breathing cattle low,
And the full Avon lifts the darken'd wave.

Now, as the mantle of the evening swells
Upon my mind, I feel a thick'ning gloom!
Ah! could I charm by necromantic spells 12
The soul of Phillips from the deathy tomb!

9" Content, who smiles at all the frowns of fate,
Fann'd from idea ev'ry seeming ill."

10" The sicken'd glare of day retires."

*Note on this verse by Chatterton, "Expunged as too flowery for grief."

11 In the first copy

"The loud winds whistle through the echoing dell!

*

And the shrill shriekings of the screech-owl swell."

12" By friendship's potent spells."

Then would we wander through this darken'd vale,
In converse such as heavenly spirits use,
And, borne upon the pinions 13 of the gale,
Hymn the Creator, and exert 1 the muse.

13

14

But, horror to reflection! now no more
Will Phillips sing, the wonder of the plain !
When, doubting whether they might not adore,
Admiring mortals heard his nervous strain.

See! see! the pitchy vapour hides the lawn,
Nought but a doleful bell of death is heard,
Save where into a blasted oak withdrawn
The scream proclaims the curst nocturnal bird.15

Now, rest my muse, but only rest to weep
A friend made dear by every sacred tie;
Unknown to me be comfort peace or sleep:
Phillips is dead-'tis pleasure then to die.

Few are the pleasures Chatterton e'er knew,
Short were the moments of his transient peace;
But melancholy robb'd him of those few,

And this hath bid all future comfort cease.

15 In the original, thus :

"A mad'ning darkness reigns through all the lawn,
Nought but a doleful bell of death is heard,

Save where into a hoary oak withdrawn," &c.

An addiction to poetry is very generally the result of an uneasy mind in an uneasy body; disease or deformity have been the attendants of many of our best. Collins, mad: Chatterton, I think mad: Cowper, mad Pope, crooked: Milton, blind.-BYRON.

And can the muse be silent, Phillips gone!
And am I still alive? My soul, arise!
The robe of immortality put on,

And meet thy Phillips in his native skies.

TO THE READER.

Observe, in favour of a hobbling strain
Neat as exported from the parent brain,
And each and every couplet I have penn’d,
But little labour'd, and I never mend.

T. C.

Chatterton's sad story is well known; his life the wonder, his death the disgrace of his country. That a boy of seventeen years should have afforded a subject for dispute to the first critics and scholars of his time is scarcely to be credited: who then shall believe that this prodigy of nature should be left a prey to indigence and famine! Scorned by those who envied him, and not understood by those who pretended to patronise him, the very efforts of his genius were made a plea for attacking his moral character; and inferences were unjustly drawn from his successful imitation of ancient manuscripts, that he would not scruple to commit the crime of forgery.

This malicious insinuation, invented only to justify the odious neglect with which he was treated, met its refutation in his death, which was innocent to all the world, except himself. Hunger itself did not tempt him to the violation of any social duty, and he closed his short life, unstained by any crime, the probable guilt of which was imputed to him by avarice and envy.-SOUTHEY.

In an eminent modern work,-overlooked indeed by this generation of novel readers and the herd of superficial critics,-but praised and valued by the good, and those whose judgment is decision, there is a picture of the "silent agony" which such as Chatterton must too often endure, which is truth itself. -"They know not, they cannot tellthe cold, dull world-they cannot even remotely conceive the agony of doubt and despair, which is the doom of youthful genius. To sigh for fame in obscurity is like sighing in a dungeon for light. Yet the votary and the captive share an equal hope. But to feel the strong necessity of fame, and to be conscious without intellectual excellence life must be insupportable-to feel all this with no simultaneous faith in your own powers-these are moments of despondency for which no immortality can compensate."-CONTARINI FLEMING.

HOR. LIB. 1. OD. 19.*

YES! I am caught, my melting soul
To Venus bends without control,

I pour th' empassioned sigh.

Ye Gods! what throbs my bosom inove,
Responsive to the glance of love,

That beams from Stella's eye.

These translations from Horace were made by Chatterton, from Watson's literal version; a book which his friend Mr. Edward Gardner lent him for the express purpose.-SOUTHEY's Edition.

DE GLYCERA.

Mater sæva Cupidinum,

Thebanæque jubet me Semeles puer,

Et lasciva licentia,

Finitis animum reddere amoribus.

Urit me Glyceræ nitor

Splendentis Pario marmore puriùs;

Urit grata protervitas,

Et vultus nimiùm lubricus aspici.

In me tota ruens Venus

Cyprum deseruit; nec patitur Scythas,

Et versis animosum equis

Parthum dicere, nec quæ nihil attinent.

Hic vivum mihi cespitem, hic

Verbenas, pueri, ponite, thuraque,

Bimi cum paterâ meri,

Mactatâ veniet lenior hostiâ.

HOR. Lib. 1. Carm. 19,

Watson's Translation is as follows:-

"OF GLYCERA.

"The cruel Queen of Love, and Bacchus, son of the Theban Semele, assisted by licentious desires, conspire to rekindle in me the passion of love, which I thought had been quite extinguished. I am ravished with the beauty of Glycera, which far excels the finest Parian marble. I am struck with her agreeable humour and fine complexion, which cannot be looked on without manifest danger. Venus hath left Cyprus to reign in my heart, and will not permit me to sing of either the warlike Scythians, or of the Parthians, who fight so boldly while they are flying; or of anything else, but what relates to her. Bring me then, boys, some green turf, vervain, incense, and a cup of two-year-old wine: when I have offered this goddess a sacrifice, she will be more mild and tractable.