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same age. The remains of the unhappy youth were The satirical and town effusions of Chatterton interred in a shell in the burying-ground of Shoe- are often in bad taste, yet display a wonderful comLane workhouse. His unfinished papers he had de- mand of easy language and lively sportive allusion.

stroyed before his death, and his room, when broken They have no traces of juvenility, unless it be in 11 open, was found covered with scraps of paper. The adopting the vulgar scandals of the day, unworthy

citizens of Bristol have erected a monument to the bis original genius. In his satire of Kew Gardens memory of their native poet.

are the follow lines, alluding to the poet laureate The poems of Chatterton, published under the and the proverbial poverty of poets :name of Rowley, consist of the tragedy of Ella, the Execution of Sir Charles Bawdin, Ode to Ella,

Though sing.song Whitehead ushers in the year, the Battle of Hastings, the Tournament, one or two

With joy to Britain's king and sovereign dear, Dialogues, and a description of Canynge's Feast.

And, in compliance to an ancient mode, Some of them, as the Ode to Ella (which we sub

Measures his syllables into an ode; join), have exactly the air of modern poetry, only

Yet such the scurvy merit of his muse, disguised with antique spelling and phraseology.

He bows to deans, and licks his lordship’s shoes ;

Then leave the wicked barren way of rhyme, The avowed compositions of Chatterton are equally inferior to the forgeries in poetical powers and dic

Fly far from poverty, be wise in time: tion ; which is satisfactorily accounted for by Sir

Regard the office more, Parnassus less, Walter Scott by the fact, that his whole powers and

Put your religion in a decent dress : energies must, at bis early age, have been converted

Then may your interest in the town advance, to the acquisition of the obsolete language and pecu

Above the reach of muses or romance. liar style necessary to support the deep-laid decep- In a poem entitled The Prophecy are some vigorous tion. He could have had no time for the study of stanzas, in a different measure, and remarkable for our modern poets, their rules of verse, or modes of maturity and freedom of style :-expression; while his whole faculties were intensely

This truth of old was sorrow's friend employed in the Herculean task of creating the person, history, and language of an ancient poet, which,

"Times at the worst will surely mend.' vast as these faculties were, were sufficient wholly

The difficulty's then to know to engross, though not to overburden them.' Å

How long Oppression's clock can go;

When Britain's sons may cease to sigh, power of picturesque painting seems to be Chatterton's most distinguishing feature as a poet. The

And hope that their redemption's nigh. heroism of Sir Charles Bawdin, who

When vile Corruption's brazen face
Summed the actions of the day

At council-board shall take her place;
Each night before he slept,

And lords-commissioners resort

To welcome her at Britain's court; and who bearded the tyrant king on his way to the scaffold, is perhaps his most striking portrait. The

Look up, ye Britons ! cease to sigh, following description of Morning in the tragedy of

For your redemption draweth nigh. Ella, is in the style of the old poets :

See Pension's harbour, large and clear, Bright sun had in his ruddy robes been dight,

Defended by St Stephen's pier! From the red east he flitted with his train;

The entrance safe, by current led, The Houris draw away the gate of Night,

Tiding round G—'s jetty head; Her sable tapestry was rent in twain :

Look up, ye Britons ! cease to sigh, The dancing streaks bedeckëd heaven's plain,

For your redemption draweth nigh. And on the dew did smile with skimmering eye, When civil power shall snore at ease ; Like gouts of blood which do black armour stain,

While soldiers fire--to keep the peace; Shining upon the bourn which standeth by;

When murders sanctuary find, The soldiers stood upon the hillis side,

And petticoats can Justice blind; Like young enleaved trees which in a forest bide.

Look up, ye Britons ! cease to sigh, A description of Spring in the same poem

For your redemption draweth nigh. The budding floweret blushes at the light,

Commerce o'er Bondage will prevail, The meads be sprinkled with the yellow hue,

Free as the wind that fills her sail. In daisied mantles is the mountain dight,

When she complains of vile restraint, The fresh young cowslip bendeth with the dew;

And Power is deaf to her complaint; The trees enleafed, into heaven straight,

Look up, ye Britons ! cease to sigh, When gentle winds do blow, to whistling din is For your redemption draweth nigh. brought.

When at Bute's feet poor Freedom lies, The evening comes, and brings the dews along,

Marked by the priest for sacrifice, The ruddy welkin shineth to the eyne,

And doomed a victim for the sins Around the ale-stakel minstrels sing the song,

Of half the outs and all the ins; Young ivy round the door-post doth entwine;

Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh, I lay me on the grass, yet to my will

For your redemption draweth nigh. Albeit all is fair, there lacketh something still.

When time shall bring your wish about, In the epistle to Canynge, Chatterton has a striking

Or, seven-years lease, you sold, is out; censure of the religious interludes which formed

No future contract to fulfil ; the early drama; but the idea, as Warton remarks, Your tenants holding at your will; is the result of that taste and discrimination which

Raise up your heads ! your right demandcould only belong to a more advanced period of so

For your redemption's in your hand. ciety,

Then is your time to strike the blow,
Plays made from holy tales I hold unmeet;

And let the slaves of Mammon know,
Let some great story of a man be sung;

Britain's true sons a bribe can scorn,
When as a man we God and Jesus treat,

And die as free as they were born.
In my poor mind we do the Godhead wrong.

Virtue again shall take her seat,
The sign-post of an alehouse.

And your redemption stand complete.

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The boy who could thus write at sixteen, might soon have proved a Swift or a Dryden. Yet in satire, Chatterton evinced but a small part of his power. His Rowleian poems have a compass of invention, and a luxuriance of fancy, that promised a great chivalrous or allegorical poet of the stamp of Spenser. Bristow Tragedy, or the Death of Sir Charles Baudin.*

The feathered songster chanticleer

Had wound his bugle-horn,
And told the early villager

The coming of the morn:
King Edward saw the ruddy streaks

of light eclipse the gray,
And heard the raven's croaking throat,

Proclaim the fated day.
*Thou’rt right,' quoth he, 'for by the God

That sits enthroned on high !
Charles Bawdin, and his fellows twain,

To-day shall surely die.'
Then with a jug of nappy ale

His knights did on him wait;
Go tell the traitor, that to-day

He leaves this mortal state.'
Sir Canterlone then bended low,

With heart brimful of wo;
He journied to the castle-gate,

And to Sir Charles did go.
But when he came, his children twain,

And eke his loving wife,
With briny tears did wet the floor,

For good Sir Charles's life.
Oh good Sir Charles!' said Canterlone,

• Bad tidings I do bring.'
Speak boldly, man,' said brave Sir Charles ;

What says the traitor king ?'
"I grieve to tell: before yon sun

Does from the welkin fly,
He hath upon his honour sworn,

That thou shalt surely die.'
• We all must die,' said brave Sir Charles;

Of that I'm not afraid ;
What boots to live a little space ?

Thank Jesus, I'm prepared.
But tell thy king, for mine he's not,

I'd sooner die to-day,
Than live his slave, as many are,

Though I should live for aye.'
Then Canterlone he did go out,

To tell the mayor straight
To get all things in readiness

For good Sir Charles's fate.
Then Mr Canynge sought the king,

And fell down on his knee;
I'm come,' quoth he, ' unto your grace,

To move your clemency.'
“Then,' quoth the king, ‘your tale speak out,

You have been much our friend;
Whatever your request may be,

• My noble liege! all my request

Is for a noble knight,
Who, though mayhap he has done wrong,

He thought it still was right.
He has a spouse and children twain;

All ruined are for aye,
If that you are resolved to let

Charles Bawdin die to-day.'
'Speak not of such a traitor vile,'

The king in fury said ;
Before the evening star doth shine,

Bawdin shall lose his head :
Justice does loudly for him call,

And he shall have his meed:
Speak, Mr Canynge! what thing else
At present

do

you need ? My noble liege!' good Canynge said,

Leave justice to our God,
And lay the iron rule aside;

Be thine the olive rod.
Was God to search our hearts and reins,

The best were sinners great ;
Christ's vicar only knows no sin,

In all this mortal state.
Let mercy rule thine infant reign,

'Twill fix thy crown full sure; From race to race thy family

All sovereigns shall endure:
But if with blood and slaughter thou

Begin thy infant reign,
Thy crown upon thy children's brows

Will never long remain.'
* Canynge, away! this traitor vile

Has scorned my power and me; How canst thou then for such a man

Intreat my clemency?' *My noble liege! the truly brave

Will valorous actions prize; Respect a brave and noble mind,

Although in enemies.'
'Canynge, away! By God in heaven

That did me being give,
I will not taste a bit of bread

Whilst this Sir Charles doth live!
By Mary, and all saints in heaven,

This sun shall be his last!'
Then Canynge dropped a briny tear,

And from the presence passed.
With heart brimful of gnawing grief,

He to Sir Charles did go,
And sat him down upon a stool,

And tears began to flow. "We all must die,' said brave Sir Charles;

“What boots it how or when ? Death is the sure, the certain fate,

Of all we mortal men.
Say why, my friend, thy honest soul

Runs over at thine eye;
Is it for my most welcome doom

That thou dost child-like cry!'
Saith godly Canynge, 'I do weep,

That thou so soon must die,
And leave thy sons and helpless wife;

'Tis this that wets mine eye.'
“Then dry the tears that out thine eye

From godly fountains spring;
Death I despise, and all the power
Of Edward, traitor king.

84

6

We will to it attend.'

* The antiquated orthography affected by Chatterton being evidently no advantage to his poems, but rather an impediment to their being generally read, we dismiss it in this and other specimens. The diction is, in reality, almost purely modern, and Chatterton's spelling in a great measure azbitrary, Bo that there seems no longer any reason for retaining what was only designed at first as a means of supporting a deception.

When through the tyrant's welcome means

I shall resign my life,
The God I serve will soon provide

For both my sons and wife.
Before I saw the lightsome sun,

This was appointed me;
Shall mortal man repine or grudge

What God ordains to be ?
How oft in battle have I stood,

When thousands died around; When smoking streams of crimson blood

Imbrued the fattened ground:
How did I know that every dart

That cut the airy way,
Might not find passage to my heart,

And close mine eyes for aye?
And shall I now, for fear of death,

Look wan and be dismayed ?
No! from my heart fly childish fear;

Be all the man displayed.
Ah, godlike Henry! God forefend,

And guard thee and thy son,
If 'tis his will; but if 'tis not,

Why, then his will be done.
My honest friend, my fault has been

To serve God and my prince;
And that I no time-server am,

My death will soon convince. In London city was I born,

Of parents of great note;
My father did a noble arms

Emblazon on his coat:
I make no doubt but he is gone

Where soon I hope to go,
Where we for ever shall be blest,

From out the reach of wo.
He taught me justice and the laws

With pity to unite;
And eke he taught me how to know

The wrong cause from the right:
He taught me with a prudent hand

To feed the hungry poor,
Nor let my servants drive away

The hungry from my door:
And none can say but all my life

I have his wordis kept;
And summed the actions of the day

Each night before I slept.
I have a spouse, go ask of her

If I defiled her bed!
I have a king, and none can lay

Black treason on my head.
In Lent, and on the holy eve,

From flesh I did refrain;
Why should I then appear dismayed

To leave this world of pain?
No, hapless Henry! I rejoice

I shall not see thy death;
Most willingly in thy just cause

Do I resign my breath.
Oh, fickle people! ruined land !

Thou wilt ken peace no moe;
While Richard's sons exalt themselves,

Thy brooks with blood will flow.
Say, were ye tired of godly peace,

And godly Henry's reign,
That you did chop your easy days
For those of blood and pain ?

1 Exchange

What though I on a sledge be drawn,

And mangled by a hind,
I do defy the traitor's power,

He cannot harm my mind:
What though, uphoisted on a pole,

My limbs shall rot in air, And no rich monument of brass

Charles Bawdin's name shall bear; Yet in the holy book above,

Which time can't eat away,
There with the servants of the Lord

My name shall live for aye.
Then welcome death ! for life eterne

I leave this mortal life :
Farewell vain world, and all that's dear,

My sons and loving wife!
Now death as welcome to me comes

As e'er the month of May;
Nor would I even wish to live,

With my dear wife to stay.'
Saith Canynge, “ 'Tis a goodly thing

To be prepared to die;
And from this world of pain and grief

To God in Heaven to fly.'
And now the bell began to toll,

And clarions to sound;
Sir Charles he heard the horses' feet

A-prancing on the ground.
And just before the officers

His loving wife came in, Weeping unfeigned tears of wo

With loud and dismal din.
*Sweet Florence ! now I pray forbear,

In quiet let me die;
Pray God that every Christian soul

May look on death as I.
Sweet Florence! why these briny tears !
They wash

my And almost make me wish for life,

With thee, sweet dame, to stay. 'Tis but a journey I shall go

Unto the land of bliss ;
Now, as a proof of husband's love

Receive this holy kiss.'
Then Florence, faltering in her say,

Trembling these wordis spoke:
* Ah, cruel Edward ! bloody king!

My heart is well nigh broke.
Ah, sweet Sir Charles ! why wilt thou go

Without thy loving wife?
The cruel axe that cuts thy neck,

It eke shall end my life.'
And now the officers came in

To bring Sir Charles away, Who turned to his loving wife,

And thus to her did say:
* I go to life, and not to death,

Trust thou in God above,
And teach thy sons to fear the Lord,

And in their hearts him love.
Teach them to run the noble race

That I their father run,
Florence ! should death thee take-adieu!

Ye officers lead on.'
Then Florence raved as any mad,

And did her tresses tear;
"Oh stay, my husband, lord, and life!
Sir Charles then dropped a tear.

soul away,

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'Till tirëd out with raving loud,

She fell upon the floor;
Sir Charles exerted all his might,

And marched from out the door.
Upon a sledge he mounted then,

With looks full brave and sweet ;
Looks that enshone no more concern

Than any in the street.
Before him went the council-men,

In scarlet robes and gold,
And tassels spangling in the sun,

Much glorious to behold:
The friars of Saint Augustine next

Appearëd to the sight,
All clad in homely russet weeds,

Of godly monkish plight:
In different parts a godly psalm

Most sweetly they did chant; Behind their back six minstrels came,

Who tuned the strange bataunt.
Then five-and-twenty archers came;

Each one the bow did bend,
From rescue of King Henry's friends

Sir Charles for to defend.
Bold as a lion came Sir Charles,

Drawn on a cloth-laid sledde, By two black steeds in trappings white,

With plumes upon their head.
Behind him five-and-twenty more

Of archers strong and stout,
With bended bow each one in hand,

Marched in goodly rout.
Saint James's friars marched next,

Each one his part did chant;
Behind their backs six minstrels came,

Who tuned the strange bataunt.
Then came the mayor and aldermen,

In cloth of scarlet decked ;
And their attending men each one,

Like eastern princes tricked.
And after them a multitude

Of citizens did throng;
The windows were all full of heads,

As he did pass along.
And when he came to the high cross,

Sir Charles did turn and say,
.O thou that savest man from sin,
Wash

my

soul clean this day.' At the great minster window sat

The king in mickle state,
To see Charles Bawdin go along

To his most welcome fate.
Soon as the sledde drew nigh enough,

That Edward he might hear,
The brave Sir Charles he did stand up,

And thus his words declare : “Thou seest me, Edward ! traitor vile!

Exposed to infamy;
But be assured, disloyal man,

I'm greater now than thee.
By foul proceedings, murder, blood,

Thou wearest now a crown;
And hast appointed me to die

By power not thine own.
Thou thinkest I shall die to-day;

I have been dead till now,
And soon shall live to wear a crown

For aye upon my brow;

Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years,

Shalt rule this fickle land,
To let them know how wide the rule

'Twixt king and tyrant hand.
Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave!

Shall fall on thy own head'-
From out of hearing of the king

Departed then the sledde.
King Edward's soul rushed to his face,

He turned his head away,
And to his brother Gloucester

He thus did speak and say:
*To him that so-much-dreaded death

No ghastly terrors bring;
Behold the man! he spake the truth;

He's greater than a king!
“So let him die! Duke Richard said ;

• And may each one our foes Bend down their necks to bloody axe,

And feed the carrion crows.' And now the horses gently drew

Sir Charles up the high hill;
The axe did glister in the sun,

His precious blood to spill.
Sir Charles did up the scaffold go,

As up a gilded car
Of victory, by valorous chiefs

Gained in the bloody war.
And to the people he did say:

• Behold you see me die, For serving loyally my king,

My king most rightfully.
As long as Edward rules this land,

No quiet you will know;
Your sons and husbands shall be slain,

And brooks with blood shall flow.
You leave your good and lawful king,

When in adversity ;
Like me, unto the true cause stick,

And for the true cause die.'
Then he, with priests, upon his knees,

A prayer to God did make,
Beseeching him unto himself

His parting soul to take.
Then, kneeling down, he laid his head

Most seemly on the block;
Which from his body fair at once

The able headsman stroke: And out the blood began to flow,

And round the scaffold twine; And tears, enough to wash't away,

Did flow from each man's eyne.
The bloody axe his body fair

Into four partis cut;
And every part, and eke his head,

Upon a pole was put.
One part did rot on Kinwulph-hill,

One on the minster-tower,
And one from off the castle-gate

The crowen did devour.
The other on Saint Paul's good gate,

A dreary spectacle;
His head was placed on the high cross,

In high street most noble.
Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate:

God prosper long our king,
And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul,
In heaven God's mercy sing!

The mystic mazes of thy will,

The shadows of celestial light, Are past the power of human skill

But what the Eternal acts is right. O teach me in the trying hour,

When anguish swells the dewy tear, To still my sorrows, own thy power,

Thy goodness love, thy justice fear, If in this bosom aught but Thee

Encroaching sought a boundless sway, Omniscience could the danger see,

And Mercy look the cause away. Then why, my soul, dost thou complain !

Why drooping seek the dark recess ?
Shake off the melancholy chain,

For God created all to bless.
But ah! my breast is human still-

The rising sigh, the falling tear,
My languid vitals' feeble rill,

The sickness of my soul declare. But yet, with fortitude resigned,

l'il thank the inflicter of the blow; Forbid the sigh, compose my mind,

Nor let the gush of misery flow. The gloomy mantle of the night,

Which on my sinking spirits steals, Will vanish at the morning light,

Which God, my East, my Sun, reveals.

WILLIAM FALCONER.

[The Minstrel's Song in Ella.] 0! sing unto my roundelay;

0! drop the briny tear with me;
Dance no inore at holiday,'
Like a running river be ;

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree.
Black his hair as the winter night,

White his neck as summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below:

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree.
Sweet his tongue as throstle's note,

Quick in dance as thought was he;
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
Oh! he lies by the willow tree.

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree.
Hark! the raven flaps his wing,

In the briered dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing,
To the nightmares as they go.

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree.
See! the white moon shines on high ;

Whiter is my true-love's shroud;
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud.

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree.
Here, upon my true-love's grave,

Shall the garish flowers be laid,
Nor one holy saint to save
All the sorrows of a maid.

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree.
With my hands I'll bind the briers,

Round his holy corse to gre;'
Elfin-fairy, light your fires,
Here my body still shall be.

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree.
Come with acorn cup and thorn,

Drain my heart's blood all away ;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast hy day.

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree.
Water-witches, crowned with reytes, 2

Bear me to your deadly tide. I die, I come-my true-love waits.

Thus the damsel spake, and died.

The terrors and circumstances of a Shipwreck had been often described by poets, ancient and modern, but never with any attempt at professional accuracy or minuteness of detail, before the poem of that name by Falconer. It was reserved for a genuine sailor to disclose, in correct and harmonious verse, the 'secrets of the deep,' and to enlist the sympathies of the general reader in favour of the daily life and occupations of his brother seamen, and in all the movements, the equipage, and tracery of those magnificent vessels which have carried the British name and enterprise to the remotest corners of the world. Poetical associations-a feeling of boundlessness and sublimity-obviously belonged to the scene of the poem--the ocean; but its interest soon wanders from this source, and centres in the stately ship and its crew-the gallant resistance which the men made to the fury of the storm-their calm and deliberate courage--the various resources of their skill and ingenuity—their consultations and resolutions as the ship labours in distress--and the brave unselfish piety and generosity with which they meet their fate, when at last

The crashing ribs divideShe loosens, parts, and spreads in ruin o'er the tide. Such a subject Falconer justly considered as new to epic lore,' but it possessed strong recommendations to the British public, whose national pride and honour are so closely identified with the sea, and 80 many of whom have some friend, some brother there.'

WILLIAM FALCONER was born in Edinburgh in 1730, and was the son of a poor barber, who had two other children, both of whom were deaf and dumb. He went early to sea, on board a Leith merchant ship, and was afterwards in the royal navy. Before he was eighteen years of age, he was second mate in the Britannia, a vessel in the Levant trade, which was shipwrecked off Cape Colonna, as de scribed in his poem. In 1751 he was living in Edinburgh, where he published his first poetical attempt,

Resignation. U God, whose thunder shakes the sky,

Whose eye this atom globe surveys ; To Thee, my only rock, I fly, Thy mercy in thy justice praise.

2 Water flags.

Grow,

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