Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 114

49 O David, highest in the list Of worthies, on G.o.d's ways insist, The genuine word repeat!

Vain are the doc.u.ments of men, And vain the flourish of the pen That keeps the fool's conceit.

50 Praise above all--for praise prevails; Heap up the measure, load the scales, And good to goodness add: The generous soul her Saviour aids, But peevish obloquy degrades; The Lord is great and glad.

51 For Adoration all the ranks Of angels yield eternal thanks, And David in the midst; With G.o.d's good poor, which, last and least In man's esteem, thou to thy feast, O blessed bridegroom, bidst.

52 For Adoration seasons change, And order, truth, and beauty range, Adjust, attract, and fill: The gra.s.s the polyanthus checks; And polished porphyry reflects, By the descending rill.

53 Rich almonds colour to the prime For Adoration; tendrils climb, And fruit-trees pledge their gems; And Ivis, with her gorgeous vest, Builds for her eggs her cunning nest, And bell-flowers bow their stems.

54 With vinous syrup cedars spout; From rocks pure honey gus.h.i.+ng out, For Adoration springs: All scenes of painting crowd the map Of nature; to the mermaid's pap The scaled infant clings.

55 The spotted ounce and playsome cubs Run rustling 'mongst the flowering shrubs, And lizards feed the moss; For Adoration beasts embark, While waves upholding halcyon's ark No longer roar and toss.

56 While Israel sits beneath his fig, With coral root and amber sprig The weaned adventurer sports; Where to the palm the jasmine cleaves, For Adoration 'mong the leaves The gale his peace reports.

57 Increasing days their reign exalt, Nor in the pink and mottled vault The opposing spirits tilt; And by the coasting reader spied, The silverlings and crusions glide For Adoration gilt.

58 For Adoration ripening canes, And cocoa's purest milk detains The western pilgrim's staff; Where rain in clasping boughs enclosed, And vines with oranges disposed, Embower the social laugh.

59 Now labour his reward receives, For Adoration counts his sheaves To peace, her bounteous prince; The nect'rine his strong tint imbibes, And apples of ten thousand tribes, And quick peculiar quince.

60 The wealthy crops of whitening rice 'Mongst thyine woods and groves of spice, For Adoration grow; And, marshalled in the fenced land, The peaches and pomegranates stand, Where wild carnations blow.

61 The laurels with the winter strive; The crocus burnishes alive Upon the snow-clad earth: For Adoration myrtles stay To keep the garden from dismay, And bless the sight from dearth.

62 The pheasant shows his pompous neck; And ermine, jealous of a speck, With fear eludes offence: The sable, with his glossy pride, For Adoration is descried, Where frosts the waves condense.

63 The cheerful holly, pensive yew, And holy thorn, their trim renew; The squirrel h.o.a.rds his nuts: All creatures batten o'er their stores, And careful nature all her doors For Adoration shuts.

64 For Adoration, David's Psalms Lift up the heart to deeds of alms; And he, who kneels and chants, Prevails his pa.s.sions to control, Finds meat and medicine to the soul, Which for translation pants.

65 For Adoration, beyond match, The scholar bullfinch aims to catch The soft flute's ivory touch; And, careless, on the hazel spray The daring redbreast keeps at bay The damsel's greedy clutch.

66 For Adoration, in the skies, The Lord's philosopher espies The dog, the ram, and rose; The planets' ring, Orion's sword; Nor is his greatness less adored In the vile worm that glows.

67 For Adoration, on the strings The western breezes work their wings, The captive ear to soothe-- Hark! 'tis a voice--how still, and small-- That makes the cataracts to fall, Or bids the sea be smooth!

68 For Adoration, incense comes From bezoar, and Arabian gums, And from the civet's fur: But as for prayer, or e'er it faints, Far better is the breath of saints Than galbanum or myrrh.

69 For Adoration, from the down Of damsons to the anana's crown, G.o.d sends to tempt the taste; And while the luscious zest invites The sense, that in the scene delights, Commands desire be chaste.

70 For Adoration, all the paths Of grace are open, all the baths Of purity refresh; And all the rays of glory beam To deck the man of G.o.d's esteem, Who triumphs o'er the flesh.

71 For Adoration, in the dome Of Christ, the sparrows find a home; And on his olives perch: The swallow also dwells with thee, O man of G.o.d's humility, Within his Saviour's church.

72 Sweet is the dew that falls betimes, And drops upon the leafy limes; Sweet Hermon's fragrant air: Sweet is the lily's silver bell, And sweet the wakeful tapers' smell That watch for early prayer.

73 Sweet the young nurse, with love intense, Which smiles o'er sleeping innocence; Sweet when the lost arrive: Sweet the musician's ardour beats, While his vague mind's in quest of sweets, The choicest flowers to hive.

74 Sweeter, in all the strains of love, The language of thy turtle-dove, Paired to thy swelling chord; Sweeter, with every grace endued, The glory of thy grat.i.tude, Respired unto the Lord.

75 Strong is the horse upon his speed; Strong in pursuit the rapid glede, Which makes at once his game: Strong the tall ostrich on the ground; Strong through the turbulent profound Shoots xiphias to his aim.

76 Strong is the lion--like a coal His eyeball--like a bastion's mole His chest against the foes: Strong the gier-eagle on his sail, Strong against tide the enormous whale Emerges as he goes.

77 But stronger still in earth and air, And in the sea the man of prayer, And far beneath the tide: And in the seat to faith a.s.signed, Where ask is have, where seek is find, Where knock is open wide.

78 Beauteous the fleet before the gale; Beauteous the mult.i.tudes in mail, Ranked arms, and crested heads; Beauteous the garden's umbrage mild.

Walk, water, meditated wild, And all the bloomy beds.

79 Beauteous the moon full on the lawn; And beauteous when the veil's withdrawn, The virgin to her spouse: Beauteous the temple, decked and filled, When to the heaven of heavens they build Their heart-directed vows.

80 Beauteous, yea beauteous more than these, The Shepherd King upon his knees, For his momentous trust; With wish of infinite conceit, For man, beast, mute, the small and great, And prostrate dust to dust.

81 Precious the bounteous widow's mite; And precious, for extreme delight, The largess from the churl: Precious the ruby's blus.h.i.+ng blaze, And alba's blest imperial rays, And pure cerulean pearl.

82 Precious the penitential tear; And precious is the sigh sincere; Acceptable to G.o.d: And precious are the winning flowers, In gladsome Israel's feast of bowers, Bound on the hallowed sod.

83 More precious that diviner part Of David, even the Lord's own heart, Great, beautiful, and new: In all things where it was intent, In all extremes, in each event, Proof--answering true to true.

84 Glorious the sun in mid career; Glorious the a.s.sembled fires appear; Glorious the comet's train: Glorious the trumpet and alarm; Glorious the Almighty's stretched-out arm; Glorious the enraptured main:

85 Glorious the northern lights astream; Glorious the song, when G.o.d's the theme; Glorious the thunder's roar: Glorious hosannah from the den; Glorious the catholic amen; Glorious the martyr's gore:

86 Glorious--more glorious is the crown Of Him that brought salvation down, By meekness called thy Son; Thou that stupendous truth believed, And now the matchless deed's achieved, Determined, Dared, and Done.

THOMAS CHATTERTON.

The history of this 'marvellous boy' is familiar to all the readers of English poetry, and requires only a cursory treatment here. Thomas Chatterton was born in Bristol, November 20, 1752. His father, a teacher in the free-school there, had died before his birth, and he was sent to be educated at a charity-school. He first learned to read from a black- letter Bible. At the age of fourteen, he was put apprentice to an attorney; a situation which, however uncongenial, left him ample leisure for pursuing his private studies. In an unlucky hour, some evil genius seemed to have whispered to this extra-ordinary youth,--'Do not find or force, but forge thy way to renown; the other paths to the summit of the hill are worn and common-place; try a new and dangerous course, the rather as I forewarn thee that thy time is short.' When, accordingly, the new bridge at Bristol was finished in October 1768, Chatterton sent to a newspaper a fict.i.tious account of the opening of the old bridge, alleging in a note that he had found the princ.i.p.al part of the description in an ancient MS. And having thus fairly begun to work the mint of forgery, it was amazing what a number of false coins he threw off, and with what perfect ease and mastery! Ancient poems, pretending to have been written four hundred and fifty years before; fragments of sermons on the Holy Spirit, dated from the fifteenth century; accounts of all the churches of Bristol as they had appeared three hundred years before; with drawings and descriptions of the castle--most of them professing to be drawn from the writings of 'ane G.o.de prieste, Thomas Rowley'--issued in thick succession from this wonderful, and, to use the Shakspearean word in a twofold sense, 'forgetive' brain. He next ventured to send to Horace Walpole, who was employed on a History of British Painters, an account of eminent 'Carvellers and Peyneters,' who, according to him, once flourished in Bristol. These labours he plied in secret, and with the utmost enthusiasm. He used to write by the light of the moon, deeming that there was a special inspiration in the rays of that planet, and reminding one of poor Nat Lee inditing his insane tragedies in his asylum under the same weird l.u.s.tre. On Sabbaths he was wont to stroll away into the country around Bristol, which is very beautiful, and to draw sketches of those objects which impressed his imagination. He often lay down on the meadows near St Mary's Redcliffe Church, admiring the ancient edifice; and some years ago we saw a chamber near the summit of that edifice where he used to sit and write, his 'eye in a fine frenzy rolling,' and where we could imagine him, when a moonless night fell, composing his wild Runic lays by the light of a candle burning in a human skull. It was actually in one of the rooms of this church that some ancient chests had been deposited, including one called the 'Coffre of Mr Canynge,' an eminent merchant in Bristol, who had rebuilt the church in the reign of Edward IV. This coffer had been broken up by public authority in 1727, and some valuable deeds had been taken out. Besides these, they contained various MSS., some of which Chatterton's father, whose uncle was s.e.xton of the church, had carried off and used as covers to the copy-books of his scholars. This furnished a hint to Chatterton's inventive genius. He gave out that among these parchments he had found many productions of Mr Canynge's, and of the aforesaid Thomas Rowley's, a priest of the fifteenth century, and a friend of Canynge's. Chatterton had become a contributor to a periodical of the day called _The Town and Country Magazine_, and to it from time to time he sent these poems. A keen controversy arose as to their genuineness. Horace Walpole shewed some of them, which Chatterton had sent him, to Gray and Mason, who were deemed, justly, first-rate authorities on antiquarian matters, and who at once p.r.o.nounced them forgeries. It is deeply to be regretted that these men, perceiving, as they must have done, the great merit of these productions, had not made more particular inquiries about them, and tried to help and save the poet. Walpole, to say the least of it, treated him coldly, telling him, when he had discovered the forgery, to attend to his own business, and keeping some of his MSS. in his hands, till an indignant letter from the author compelled him to restore them.

Chatterton now determined to go to London. His three years' apprentices.h.i.+p had expired, and there was in Bristol no further field for his aspiring genius. He found instant employment among the booksellers, and procured an introduction to Beckford, the patriot mayor, who tried to get him engaged upon the Opposition side in politics. Our capricious and unprincipled poet, however, declared that he was a poor author that could not write on both sides; and although his leanings were to the popular party, yet on the death of Beckford he addressed a letter to Lord North in support of his administration. He had projected some large works, such as a History of England and a History of London, and wrote flaming letters to his mother and sisters about his prospects, enclosing them at the same time small remittances of money. But his bright hopes were soon overcast. Instead of a prominent political character, he found himself a mere bookseller's hack. To this his poverty no more than his will would consent, for though that was great it was equalled by his pride. His life in the country had been regular, although his religious principles were loose; but in town, misery drove him to intemperance, and intemperance, in its reaction, to remorse and a desperate tampering with the thought,

'There is one remedy for all.'

At last, after a vain attempt to obtain an appointment as a surgeon's mate to Africa, he made up his mind to suicide. A guinea had been sent him by a gentleman, which he declined. Mrs Angel, his landlady, knowing him to be in want, the day before his death offered him his dinner, but this also he spurned; and, on the 25th of August 1770, having first destroyed all his papers, he swallowed a.r.s.enic, and was found dead in his bed.

He was buried in a sh.e.l.l in the burial-place of Shoe-Lane Workhouse.

He was aged seventeen years nine months and a few days. Alas for

'The sleepless soul that perished in his pride!'

Chatterton, had he lived, would, perhaps, have become a powerful poet, or a powerful character of some kind. But we must now view him chiefly as a prodigy. Some have treated his power as unnatural--resembling a huge hydrocephalic head, the magnitude of which implies disease, ultimate weakness, and early death. Others maintain that, apart from the extraordinary elements that undoubtedly characterised Chatterton, and const.i.tuted him a premature and prodigious birth intellectually, there was also in parts of his poems evidence of a healthy vigour which only needed favourable circ.u.mstances to develop into transcendent excellence.

Hazlitt, holding with the one of these opinions, cries, 'If Chatterton had had a great work to do by living, he would have lived!' Others retort on the critic, 'On the same principle, why did Keats, whom you rate so high, perish so early?' The question altogether is nugatory, seeing it can never be settled. Suffice it that these songs and rhymes of Chatterton have great beauties, apart from the age and position of their author. There may at times be madness, but there is method in it.