MONODY ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON

      O what a wonder seems the fear of death,

      Seeing how gladly we all sink to sleep,

      Babes, Children, Youths, and Men,

      Night following night for threescore years and ten!

      But doubly strange, where life is but a breath 5

      To sigh and pant with, up Want’s rugged steep.

      Away, Grim Phantom! Scorpion King, away!

      Reserve thy terrors and thy stings display

      For coward Wealth and Guilt in robes of State!

      Lo! by the grave I stand of one, for whom 10

      A prodigal Nature and a niggard Doom

      (That all bestowing, this withholding all)

      Made each chance knell from distant spire or dome

      Sound like a seeking Mother’s anxious call,

      Return, poor Child! Home, weary Truant, home! 15

      Thee, Chatterton! these unblest stones protect

      From want, and the bleak freezings of neglect.

      Too long before the vexing Storm-blast driven

      Here hast thou found repose! beneath this sod!

      Thou! O vain word! thou dwell’st not with the clod! 20

      Amid the shining Host of the Forgiven

      Thou at the throne of mercy and thy God

      The triumph of redeeming Love dost hymn

      (Believe it, O my Soul!) to harps of Seraphim.

      Yet oft, perforce (‘tis suffering Nature’s call), 25

      I weep that heaven-born Genius so should fall;

      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; 30

      Now Indignation checks the feeble sigh,

      Or flashes 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? 35

      Ah me! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine,

      Beneath chill Disappointment’s shade,

      His weary limbs in lonely anguish lay’d.

       And o’er her darling dead

       Pity hopeless hung her head, 40

      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.

       Lighthearted youth! aye, as he hastes along, 45

       He meditates the future song,

      How dauntless Ælla fray’d the Dacyan foe;

       And while the numbers flowing strong

       In eddies whirl, in surges throng,

      Exulting in the spirits’ genial throe 50

      In tides of power his lifeblood seems to flow.

      And now his cheeks with deeper ardors flame,

      His eyes have glorious meanings, that declare

      More than the light of outward day shines there,

      A holier triumph and a sterner aim! 55

      Wings grow within him; and he soars above

      Or Bard’s or Minstrel’s lay of war or love.

      Friend to the friendless, to the sufferer health,

      He hears the widow’s prayer, the good man’s praise;

      To scenes of bliss transmutes his fancied wealth, 60

      And young and old shall now see happy days.

      On many a waste he bids trim gardens rise,

      Gives the blue sky to many a prisoner’s eyes;

      And now in wrath he grasps the patriot steel,

      And her own iron rod he makes Oppression feel. 65

      Sweet Flower of Hope! free Nature’s genial child!

      That didst so fair disclose thy early bloom,

      Filling the wide air with a rich perfume!

      For thee in vain all heavenly aspects smil’d;

      From the hard world brief respite could they win — 70

      The frost nipp’d sharp without, the canker prey’d within!

      Ah! where are fled the charms of vernal Grace,

      And Joy’s wild gleams that lighten’d o’er thy face?

      Youth of tumultuous soul, and haggard eye!

      Thy wasted form, thy hurried steps I view, 75

      On thy wan forehead starts the lethal dew,

      And oh! the anguish of that shuddering sigh!

      Such were the struggles of the gloomy hour,

       When Care, of wither’d brow,

       Prepar’d the poison’s death-cold power: 80

       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; 85

       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 thrilling tear; 90

       See, see her breast’s convulsive throe,

       Her silent agony of woe!

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

      And thou hadst dashed it, at her soft command,

      But that Despair and Indignation rose, 95

      And told again the story of thy woes;

      Told the keen insult of the 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 combined! 100

      Recoiling quick, thou badest the friend of pain

      Roll the black tide of Death through every freezing vein!

       O spirit blest!

      Whether the Eternal’s throne around,

      Amidst the blaze of Seraphim, 105

      Thou pourest forth the grateful hymn,

      Or soaring thro’ the blest domain

      Enrapturest Angels with thy strain, —

      Grant me, like thee, the lyre to sound,

      Like thee with fire divine to glow; — 110

      But ah! when rage the waves of woe,

      Grant