The fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth leap, Mutt'ring distemper'd triumph in her charmed sleep. Away, my soul, away! In vain, in vain, the birds of warning sing- I, unpartaking of the evil thing, Have wail'd my country with a loud lament. In the deep sabbath of blest self-content; MONODY ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON. WHEN faint and sad o'er Sorrow's desart wild Thee, CHATTERTON! yon unblest stones protect Yet oft ('tis nature's call) I weep, that heaven-born genius so should fall; Now groans my sickening heart, as still I view And now a flash of indignation high Darts thro' the tear, that glistens in mine eye! Is this the land of song-ennobled line? Ah me! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine, 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, And meditates the future song, How dauntless Ella fray'd the Dacyan foes; Glitter the sunny visions fair, His eyes dance rapture, and his bosom glows! Yes! clad in nature's rich array, And bright in all her tender hues, Sweet tree of hope! thou loveliest child of spring Most fair didst thou disclose thine early bloom, * Avon, a river near Bristol, the birth-place of Chatterton. Loading the west-winds with its soft perfume! On every blossom hung her fostering dews, That, changeful, wonton'd to the orient day! But soon upon thy poor unshelter'd head Did penury her sickly mildew shed. And soon the scathing Light'ning bade thee stand In frowning horror o'er the blighted land! Ah! where are fled the charms of vernal Grace, 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; See, see her breast's convulsive throe, Ah! dash the poison'd chalice from thy hand! And thou had'st 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; 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 thro' every freezing vein! Ye woods! that wave o'er Avon's rocky steep, When most the big soul feels the mad'ning pow'r, Round which the screaming sea-gulls soar, With wild unequal steps he pass'd along, Anon, upon some rough rocks 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. This chaplet cast I on thy unshap'd tomb; Lest kindred woes persuade a kindred doom. Hence, gloomy thoughts! no more my soul shall dwell O Chatterton! that thou wert yet alive! Sure thou would'st 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 |