O Chatterton! how very sad thy fate!

      Dear child of sorrow – son of misery!

      How soon the film of death obscur’d that eye,

      Whence Genius mildly flash’d, and high debate.

      How soon that voice, majestic and elate,

      Melted in dying numbers! Oh! how nigh

      Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die

      A half-blown flow’ret which cold blasts amate.

      But this is past: thou art among the stars

      Of highest Heaven: to the rolling spheres

      Thou sweetly singest: naught thy hymning mars,

      Above the ingrate world and human fears.

      On earth the good man base detraction bars

      From thy fair name, and waters it with tears.

      The church bells toll a melancholy round,

      Calling the people to some other prayers,

      Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,

      More hearkening to the sermon’s horrid sound.

      Surely the mind of man is closely bound

      In some black spell; seeing that each one tears

      Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian airs,

      And converse high of those with glory crown’d.

      Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp, -

      A chill as from a tomb, did I not know

      That they are dying like an outburnt lamp;

      That ’tis their sighing, wailing ere they go

      Into oblivion; – that fresh flowers will grow,

      And many glories of immortal stamp.

      Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell:

      No God, no Demon of severe response,

      Deigns to reply from heaven or from hell.

      Then to my human heart I turn at once.

      Heart! Thou and I are here sad and alone;

      I say, why did I laugh! O mortal pain!

      O Darkness! Darkness! ever must I moan,

      To question Heaven and Hell and Heart in vain.

      Why did I laugh? I know this Being’s lease,

      My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads;

      Yet would I on this very midnight cease,

      And the world’s gaudy ensigns see in shreds;

      Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed,

      But Death intenser – Death is Life’s high meed.

      Cat! who hast pass’d thy grand climacteric,

      How many mice and rats hast in thy days

      Destroy’d? – How many tit bits stolen? Gaze

      With those bright languid segments green, and prick

      Those velvet ears – but pr’ythee do not stick

      Thy latent talons in me – and upraise

      Thy gentle mew – and tell me all thy frays

      Of fish and mice, and rats and tender chick.

      Nay, look not down, nor lick thy dainty wrists -

      For all the wheezy asthma, – and for all

      Thy tail’s tip is nick’d off – and though the fists

      Of many a maid have given thee many a maul,

      Still is that fur as soft as when the lists

      In youth thou enter’dst on glass bottled wall.

      Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud

      Upon the top of Nevis, blind in mist!

      I look into the chasms, and a shroud

      Vapourous doth hide them, – just so much I wist

      Mankind do know of hell; I look o’erhead,

      And there is sullen mist, – even so much

      Mankind can tell of heaven; mist is spread

      Before the earth, beneath me, – even such,

      Even so vague is man’s sight of himself!

      Here are the craggy stones beneath my feet, -

      Thus much I know that, a poor witless elf,

      I tread on them, – that all my eye doth meet

      Is mist and crag, not only on this height,

      But in the world of thought and mental might!

      This pleasant tale is like a little copse:

      The honied lines do freshly interlace

      To keep the reader in so sweet a place,

      So that he here and there full-hearted stops;

      And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops

      Come cool and suddenly against his face,

      And by the wandering melody may trace

      Which way the tender-legged linnet hops.

      Oh! what a power hath white simplicity!

      What mighty power has this gentle story!

      I that for ever feel athirst for glory

      Could at this moment be content to lie

      Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings

      Were heard of none beside the mournful robins.

      Four seasons fill the measure of the year;

      There are four seasons in the mind of man:

      He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear

      Takes in all beauty with an easy span:

      He has his Summer, when luxuriously

      Spring’s honied cud of youthful thought he loves

      To