And oft, in fancy's saddest hour, my soul
Averted shudders at the poison'd bowl.
Now groans my sickening heart, as still I view
Thy corse of livid hue;

And now a flash of indignation high

Darts through the tear, that glistens in mine

eye.

Is this the land of song-ennobled line?
Is this the land, where Genius ne'er in vain
Pour'd forth his lofty strain?

Ah me! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine,
Beneath chill disappointment's shade,
His weary limbs in lonely anguish laid :
And o'er her darling dead

Pity, hopeless, hung her head,

While "mid the pelting of that merciless storm,"

Sunk to the cold earth Otway's famish'd form.

Sublime of thought, and confident of fame, From vales where Avon* winds, the Minstrel

came.

Light-hearted youth! he hastes along,

And meditates the future song,

How dauntless Ælla fray'd the Dacyan foes; See, as floating high in air,

Glitter the sunny visions fair,

His eyes dance rapture, and his bosom glows.

*A river near Bristol, the birth-place of Chatterton.

Ah! where are fled the charms of vernal grace, And joy's wild gleams, light-flashing o'er thy face ?

Youth of tumultuous soul and haggard eye!
Thy wasted form, thy hurried steps I view,
On thy cold forehead starts the anguish'd dew:
And dreadful was that bosom-rending sigh.

Such were the struggles of that gloomy hour,

When Care, of wither'd brow,

Prepar'd the poison's power:

Already to thy lips was rais'd the bowl,

When near thee stood Affection meek,
(Her bosom bare, and wildly pale her
cheek);

Thy sullen gaze she bade thee roll

On scenes that well might melt thy soul;
Thy native cot she flash'd upon thy view,
Thy native cot, where still, at close of day,
Peace smiling sate, and listen'd to thy lay;
Thy sister's shrieks she bade thee hear,
And mark thy mother's tear;

See, see her breast's convulsive throe,
Her silent agony of woe!

Ah! dash the poison'd chalice from thy hand!

And thou hadst dash'd it, at her soft command,
But that despair and indignation rose,
And told again the story of thy woes;
Told the keen insult of th' unfeeling heart;

K

The dread dependence on the low-born mind; Told every pang, with which thy soul must smart,

Neglect, and grinning scorn, and want; combin'd!

Recoiling quick, thou bad'st the friend of pain Roll the black tide of death through every freezing vein.

Ye woods! that wave o'er Avon's rocky steep,

To fancy's ear sweet is your murm'ring deep; For here she loves the cypress wreath to

weave;

Watching, with wistful eye, the sad ning tints

of eve.

Here, far from men, amid this pathless grove, In solemn thought, the minstrel wont to rove, Like star-beam on the slow sequester'd tide Lone-glittering, thro' the high tree branching wide.

And here, in inspiration's eager hour,

When most the big soul feels the mad'ning power,

These wilds, these caverns, roaming o'er,
Round which the screaming sea-gulls soar,

With wild unequal steps he pass'd along,
Oft pouring on the winds a broken song :
Anon, upon some rough rock's fearful brow,
Would pause abrupt-and gaze upon the waves
below.

Poor Chatterton! he sorrows for thy fate
Who would have prais'd and lov'd thee, ere too
late.

Poor Chatterton! farewell! of darkest hues
This chaplet cast I on thy shapeless tomb;
But dare no longer on the sad theme muse,
Lest kindred woes persuade a kindred doom!

Hence, gloomy thoughts! no more my soul shall dwell

On joys that were! No more endure to weigh
The shame and anguish of the evil day.
Wisely forgetful! O'er the ocean swell,
Sublime of hope, I seek the cottag'd dell,
Where virtue calm with careless step may
stray;

And, dancing to the moonlight roundelay,
The wizard passions weave an holy spell.

O Chatterton! that thou wert yet alive!
Sure thou wouldst spread the canvass to the

gale,

And love with us the tinkling team to drive
O'er peaceful freedom's undivided dale;

And we, at sober eve, would round thee throng,
Hanging, enraptur'd, on thy stately song!
And greet with smiles the young-eyed Poesy,
All deftly mask'd, as hoar antiquity.

Alas, vain phantasies! the fleeting brood
Of woe, self-solac'd in her dreamy mood!

Yet will I love to follow the sweet dream Where Susquehannah pours his untam'd stream; And on some hill, whose forest-frowning side Waves o'er the murmurs of his calmer tide, Will raise a solemn cenotaph to thee,

Sweet harper of time-shrouded minstrelsy! And there, sooth'd sadly by the dirgeful wind, Muse on the sore ills I had left behind. October, 1794.

SONNET.

My heart has thank'd thee, Bowles! for those soft strains,

Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring
Of wild bees in the sunny showers of spring.
For hence, not callous to the mourner's pains,
Through youth's gay prime and thornless paths
I went :

And when the darker day of life began,
And I did roam, a thought-bewilder'd man!
Their mild and manliest melancholy lent
A mingled charm, which oft the pang con-
sign'd

To slumber, though the big tear it renew'd:
Bidding such strange mysterious pleasure brood
Over the wavy and tumultuous mind,

As made the soul enamour'd of her woe :
No common praise, dear bard! to thee I owe.