And oft, in fancy's saddest hour, my soul And now a flash of indignation high Darts through 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, 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! 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, 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 hadst dash'd it, at her soft command, 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, With wild unequal steps he pass'd along, Poor Chatterton! he sorrows for thy fate Poor Chatterton! farewell! of darkest hues Hence, gloomy thoughts! no more my soul shall dwell On joys that were! No more endure to weigh And, dancing to the moonlight roundelay, O Chatterton! that thou wert yet alive! gale, And love with us the tinkling team to drive And we, at sober eve, would round thee throng, Alas, vain phantasies! the fleeting brood 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 And when the darker day of life began, To slumber, though the big tear it renew'd: As made the soul enamour'd of her woe : |