Chapter 11

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 God'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 gratitude, 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 assigned, Where ask is have, where seek is find, Where knock is open wide.

78 Beauteous the fleet before the gale; Beauteous the multitudes 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79 Beauteous the moon full on the lawn; And beauteous when the veil's withdrawn, The virgin to her spouse: Beauteous the temple, decked and filled, When to the heaven of heavens they build Their heart-directed vows.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 blushing blaze, And alba's blest imperial rays, And pure cerulean pearl.

82 Precious the penitential tear; And precious is the sigh sincere; Acceptable to God: 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 assembled 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 God'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 fictitious account of the opening of the old bridge, alleging in a note that he had found the principal 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 gode 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 lustre. 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 sexton 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 pronounced 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' apprenticeship 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 arsenic, and was found dead in his bed.

He was buried in a shell 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 constituted him a premature and prodigious birth intellectually, there was also in parts of his poems evidence of a healthy vigour which only needed favourable circumstances 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. The flight of the rhapsody is ever upheld by the strength of the wing, and while the reading discovered is enormous for a boy, the depth of feeling exhibited is equally extraordinary; and the clear, firm judgment which did not characterise his conduct, forms the root and the trunk of much of his poetry. It was said of his eyes that it seemed as if fire rolled under them; and it rolls still, and shall ever roll, below many of his verses.

BRISTOWE TRAGEDY.

1 The feathered songster, chanticleer, Hath wound his bugle-horn, And told the early villager The coming of the morn.

2 King Edward saw the ruddy streaks Of light eclipse the gray, And heard the raven's croaking throat Proclaim the fated day.

3 'Thou'rt right,' quoth he, 'for by the God That sits enthroned on high! Charles Bawdin and his fellows twain To-day shall surely die.'

4 Then with a jug of nappy ale His knights did on him wait; 'Go tell the traitor that to-day He leaves this mortal state.'

5 Sir Canterlone then bended low, With heart brimful of woe; He journeyed to the castle-gate, And to Sir Charles did go.

6 But when he came, his children twain, And eke his loving wife, With briny tears did wet the floor, For good Sir Charles' life.

7 'O good Sir Charles!' said Canterlone, 'Bad tidings I do bring.' 'Speak boldly, man,' said brave Sir Charles; 'What says the traitor king?'

8 'I grieve to tell; before that sun Doth from the heaven fly, He hath upon his honour sworn, That thou shalt surely die.'

9 'We all must die,' quoth brave Sir Charles; 'Of that I'm not afeard; What boots to live a little space? Thank Jesus, I'm prepared:

10 'But tell thy king, for mine he's not, I'd sooner die to-day Than live his slave, as many are, Though I should live for aye.'

11 Then Canterlone he did go out, To tell the mayor straight To get all things in readiness For good Sir Charles' fate.

12 Then Master Canynge sought the king, And fell down on his knee; 'I'm come,' quoth he, 'unto your Grace To move your clemency.'

13 'Then,' quoth the king, 'your tale speak out; You have been much our friend; Whatever your request may be, We will to it attend.'

14 'My noble liege! all my request Is for a noble knight, Who, though perhaps he has done wrong, He thought it still was right:

15 'He has a spouse and children twain-- All ruined are for aye, If that you are resolved to let Charles Bawdin die to-day.'

16 'Speak not of such a traitor vile,' The king in fury said; 'Before the evening star doth shine, Bawdin shall lose his head:

17 'Justice does loudly for him call, And he shall have his meed; Speak, Master Canynge! what thing else At present do you need?'

18 'My noble liege!' good Canynge said, 'Leave justice to our God, And lay the iron rule aside;-- Be thine the olive rod.

19 'Was God to search our hearts and reins, The best were sinners great; Christ's vicar only knows no sin, In all this mortal state.

20 'Let mercy rule thine infant reign; 'Twill fix thy crown full sure; From race to race thy family All sovereigns shall endure:

21 'But if with blood and slaughter thou Begin thy infant reign, Thy crown upon thy children's brow Will never long remain.'

22 'Canynge, away! this traitor vile Has scorned my power and me; How canst thou then for such a man Entreat my clemency?'

23 'My noble liege! the truly brave Will valorous actions prize; Respect a brave and noble mind, Although in enemies.'

24 'Canynge, away! By God in heaven, That did me being give, I will not taste a bit of bread While this Sir Charles doth live.

25 'By Mary, and all saints in heaven, This sun shall be his last.'-- Then Canynge dropped a briny tear, And from the presence passed.

26 With heart brimful of gnawing grief, He to Sir Charles did go, And sat him down upon a stool, And tears began to flow.

27 'We all must die,' quoth brave Sir Charles; 'What boots it how or when? Death is the sure, the certain fate Of all us mortal men.

28 'Say why, my friend, thy honest soul Runs over at thine eye? Is it for my most welcome doom That thou dost child-like cry?'

29 Quoth godly Canynge, 'I do weep, That thou so soon must die, And leave thy sons and helpless wife; 'Tis this that wets mine eye.'

30 'Then dry the tears that out thine eye From godly fountains spring; Death I despise, and all the power Of Edward, traitor king.

31 'When through the tyrant's welcome means I shall resign my life, The God I serve will soon provide For both my sons and wife.

32 'Before I saw the lightsome sun, This was appointed me;-- Shall mortal man repine or grudge What God ordains to be?

33 'How oft in battle have I stood, When thousands died around; When smoking streams of crimson blood Imbrued the fattened ground?

34 'How did I know that every dart, That cut the airy way, Might not find passage to my heart, And close mine eyes for aye?

35 'And shall I now from fear of death Look wan and be dismayed? No! from my heart fly childish fear, Be all the man displayed.

36 'Ah, godlike Henry! God forefend And guard thee and thy son, If 'tis his will; but if 'tis not, Why, then his will be done.

37 'My honest friend, my fault has been To serve God and my prince; And that I no timeserver am, My death will soon convince.

38 'In London city was I born, Of parents of great note; My father did a noble arms Emblazon on his coat:

39 'I make no doubt that he is gone 'Where soon I hope to go; Where we for ever shall be blest, From out the reach of woe.

40 'He taught me justice and the laws With pity to unite; And likewise taught me how to know The wrong cause from the right:

41 'He taught me with a prudent hand To feed the hungry poor; Nor let my servants drive away The hungry from my door:

42 'And none can say but all my life I have his counsel kept, And summed the actions of each day Each night before I slept.

43 'I have a spouse; go ask of her If I denied her bed; I have a king, and none can lay Black treason on my head.

44 'In Lent, and on the holy eve, From flesh I did refrain; Why should I then appear dismayed To leave this world of pain?

45 'No, hapless Henry! I rejoice I shall not see thy death; Most willingly in thy just cause Do I resign my breath.

46 'O fickle people, ruined land! Thou wilt know peace no moe; While Richard's sons exalt themselves, Thy brooks with blood will flow.

47 'Say, were ye tired of godly peace, And godly Henry's reign, That you did change your easy days For those of blood and pain?

48 'What though I on a sledge be drawn, And mangled by a hind? I do defy the traitor's power,-- He cannot harm my mind!

49 'What though uphoisted on a pole, My limbs shall rot in air, And no rich monument of brass Charles Bawdin's name shall bear?

50 'Yet in the holy book above, Which time can't eat away, There, with the servants of the Lord, My name shall live for aye.

51 'Then welcome death! for life eterne I leave this mortal life: Farewell, vain world! and all that's dear, My sons and loving wife!

52 'Now death as welcome to me comes As e'er the month of May; Nor would I even wish to live, With my dear wife to stay.'

53 Quoth Canynge, ''Tis a goodly thing To be prepared to die; And from this world of pain and grief To God in heaven to fly.'

54 And now the bell began to toll, And clarions to sound; Sir Charles he heard the horses' feet A-prancing on the ground:

55 And just before the officers His loving wife came in, Weeping unfeigned tears of woe, With loud and dismal din.

56 'Sweet Florence! now, I pray, forbear; In quiet let me die; Pray God that every Christian soul May look on death as I.

57 'Sweet Florence! why those briny tears? They wash my soul away, And almost make me wish for life, With thee, sweet dame, to stay.

58 ''Tis but a journey I shall go Unto the land of bliss; Now, as a proof of husband's love, Receive this holy kiss.'

59 Then Florence, faltering in her say, Trembling these words she spoke,-- 'Ah, cruel Edward! bloody king! My heart is well-nigh broke.

60 'Ah, sweet Sir Charles! why wilt thou go Without thy loving wife? The cruel axe that cuts thy neck Shall also end my life.'

61 And now the officers came in To bring Sir Charles away, Who turned to his loving wife, And thus to her did say:

62 'I go to life, and not to death; Trust thou in God above, And teach thy sons to fear the Lord, And in their hearts him love:

63 'Teach them to run the noble race That I their father run; Florence! should death thee take--adieu!-- Ye officers, lead on.'

64 Then Florence raved as any mad, And did her tresses tear;-- 'Oh, stay, my husband, lord, and life!'-- Sir Charles then dropped a tear;--

65 Till tired out with raving loud, She fell upon the floor: Sir Charles exerted all his might, And marched from out the door.

66 Upon a sledge he mounted then, With looks full brave and sweet; Looks that did show no more concern Than any in the street.

67 Before him went the council-men, In scarlet robes and gold, And tassels spangling in the sun, Much glorious to behold:

68 The friars of St Augustine next Appeared to the sight, All clad in homely russet weeds Of godly monkish plight:

69 In different parts a godly psalm Most sweetly they did chaunt; Behind their backs six minstrels came, Who tuned the strong bataunt.

70 Then five-and-twenty archers came; Each one the bow did bend, From rescue of King Henry's friends Sir Charles for to defend.

71 Bold as a lion came Sir Charles, Drawn on a cloth-laid sled By two black steeds, in trappings white, With plumes upon their head.

72 Behind him five-and-twenty more Of archers strong and stout, With bended bow each one in hand, Marched in goodly rout:

73 Saint James's friars marched next, Each one his part did chaunt; Behind their backs six minstrels came Who tuned the strong bataunt:

74 Then came the mayor and aldermen, In cloth of scarlet decked; And their attending men, each one Like eastern princes tricked:

75 And after them a multitude Of citizens did throng; The windows were all full of heads, As he did pass along.

76 And when he came to the high cross, Sir Charles did turn and say,-- 'O Thou that savest man from sin, Wash my soul clean this day!'

77 At the great minster window sat The king in mickle state, To see Charles Bawdin go along To his most welcome fate.

78 Soon as the sledge drew nigh enough That Edward he might hear, The brave Sir Charles he did stand up, And thus his words declare:

79 'Thou seest me, Edward! traitor vile! Exposed to infamy; But be assured, disloyal man! I'm greater now than thee.

80 'By foul proceedings, murder, blood, Thou wearest now a crown; And hast appointed me to die, By power not thine own.

81 'Thou thinkest I shall die to-day; I have been dead till now, And soon shall live to wear a crown For ever on my brow:

82 'Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years Shall rule this fickle land, To let them know how wide the rule 'Twixt king and tyrant hand:

83 'Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave! Shall fall on thy own head'---- From out of hearing of the king Departed then the sled.

84 King Edward's soul rushed to his face, He turned his head away, And to his brother Gloucester He thus did speak and say:

85 'To him that so much dreaded death No ghastly terrors bring, Behold the man! he spake the truth, He's greater than a king!'

86 'So let him die!' Duke Richard said; 'And may each of our foes Bend down their necks to bloody axe, And feed the carrion crows!'

87 And now the horses gently drew Sir Charles up the high hill; The axe did glisten in the sun, His precious blood to spill.

88 Sir Charles did up the scaffold go, As up a gilded car Of victory, by valorous chiefs, Gained in the bloody war:

89 And to the people he did say,-- 'Behold, you see me die, For serving loyally my king, My king most rightfully.