# Monody on the Death of Chatterton (1794)

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When faint and sad o'er sorrow's desert wild Slow journeys onward poor misfortune's child; When fades each lovely form by fancy drest, And inly pines the self-consuming breast; (No scourge of scorpions in thy right arm dread. No helmed terrors nodding o'er thy head); Assume, O death! the cherub wings of peace, And bid the heart-sick wanderer's anguish cease!
Thee, Chatterton! yon unblest stones protect From want, and the bleak freezings of neglect! 10 Escaped the sore wounds of affliction's rod, Meek at the throne of mercy, and of God, Perchance, thou raisest high th' enraptured hymn Amid the blaze of seraphim!
Yet oft ('tis nature's call) I weep, that heaven-born genius so should fall; And oft, in fancy's saddest hour, my soul Averted shudders at the poisoned bowl. Now groans my sickening heart, as still I view Thy corse of livid hue; 20 And now a flash of indignation high Darts thro' 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? Ah me! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine, Beneath chill disappointment's shade, His weary limbs in lonely anguish laid, And o'er her darling dead Pity hopeless hung her head, 30 While 'mid the pelting of that pitiless storm, Sunk to the cold earth Otway's famished form?
Sublime of thought, and confident of fame From vales where Avon winds the minstrel came Lighted-hearted youth! he hastes along And meditates the future song. How dauntless AElla fray'd the Dacian foes: See, as floating high in air Glitter teh sunny visions fair, His eyes dance rapture, and his bosom glows? 40
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! Thy wasted form, thy hurried steps I view, On thy cold forehead starts the anguished dew: And dreadful was that bosom-rending sigh!
Such were the struggles of that gloomy hour, When care, of withered brow, Prepared the poison's power: Already to thy lips was raised the bowl. 60 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; Thy native cot she flashed upon thy view, Thy native cot, where still, at close of day, Peace smiling sate, and listened to thy lay; Thy sister's shrieks she bade thee hear, And mark thy mother's tear; See, see her breast's convulsive throe, 70 Her silent agony of woe! Ah! dash the poisoned chalice from thy hand!
And thou hadst dashed 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 ev'ry pang, with which thy soul must smart, Neglect, and grinning scorn, and want combined! Recoiling quick, thou bad'st the friend of pain 80 Roll the dark tide of death thro' 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 sadd'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 sequestered tide Lone-glittering, thro' the high tree branching wide. And here, in inspiration's eager hour, 90 When most the big soul feels the madd'ning power, These wilds, these caverns roaming o'er, Round which the screaming sea-gulls soar, With wild unequal steps he passed along, Oft pouring on the winds a broken song: Anon, upon some rough rock's fearful brow Would pause abrupt -- and gaze upon the waves below.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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