The HyperTexts
CHATTERTON
Was Thomas Chatterton the greatest child prodigy in the history of poetry and an
angelic figure, or
was he a dastardly forger and fraud? He has been portrayed as both, sometimes
simultaneously. (An interesting aspect of conspiracy theorists is that they are
able to believe completely contradictory notions.) That Chatterton was among the most remarkable of
child prodigies is hard to dispute, because at age ten he was writing
poems that were published, and by his early teens he had taught himself medieval
English and was producing poems by a fictitious poet, Thomas Rowley, in the language and style of Chaucer
and his contemporaries. The clever young Chatterton taught
himself to write in the "ye olde Englische" style, and to use ocher
and other chemicals to age the
"discovered" manuscripts to make them look like antiques. While his
pseudo-medieval compositions were
far from perfect, in terms of complying with all the complicated rules of that
long-ago day, and were eventually exposed as modern work, they enchanted some of
the better-known Romantic poets to come―including Blake,
Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley and Keats―who saw Chatterton not only as one of
them, but also as a trailblazer. They were inclined to see and portray
Chatterton as a rejected genius and a rather angelic,
tragic figure. His detractors, however, frequently portrayed him as a deliberate
deceiver, forger and fraud. Today, in a number of biographies and scholarly
papers about Chatterton, we see both views of Chatterton superimposed on his
boyish image: he is the angelic victim with the long, flowing, curly locks who
became the notorious conman. But was Chatterton that notorious, really, or were there perhaps perfectly good and
understandable reasons for his deceptions? And didn't other writers of his day
do similar things, including Horace Walpole, whose curt dismissal of the younger
writer may have led to his suicide at age seventeen?
I believe there were perfectly good and understandable reasons for Chatterton's
deceptions. First, his family was poor, his father died before he was born, he
was sent to a charity school, and to improve his lot in life he needed to make
money. And it can be very difficult for pre-teens to
make money, or to be taken seriously by adults!
Second, Chatterton had limited options. He had basically become an indentured
servant to a lawyer who beat him and tore up his poems, even though Chatterton
fulfilled all his duties and only wrote poetry when he had no official work to
do. Chatterton only escaped this virtual enslavement by threatening to commit
suicide, at which point the lawyer released him. Third, Chatterton came from a
lower-class family at a time when England still had a substantially rigid caste
system. Even if Chatterton had been older, the landed and monied gentry would
have been unlikely to treat him as their peer. For instance, when Horace Walpole
learned that Chatterton was "beneath" him in status, although he had previously
been enamored with the Rowley poems and later called them works of the "greatest
genius," his attitude in his letters changed abruptly and he essentially advised
the poet to "get a real job" and work on poetry as a hobby. For a poet with
Chatterton's abilities and ambitions, the prejudices of his day were a crushing
cross to bear. I see no reason to continue to crucify him.
But in any case,
I believe we must ultimately detach the myth―or even the
reality―of Chatterton the "boy genius"
and/or "fraud" from our evaluation of his work. In the end, if
Chatterton was a poet―and I believe he was―it is the work
that really matters: not the myth, not the man (or boy), not our feelings about
his life and death. There are many people who were tragic figures who were not
necessarily great artists. Abraham Lincoln wrote poetry. His assassination―one
of the ultimate tragedies―does not make his poetry better or worse. To determine
whether Abraham Lincoln was a great, good, mediocre, bad or terrible poet, we
have to consider his poems as poems. And we must do the same with Chatterton's
poems, if we are to do him and them justice. If we determine that Chatterton was a good or great
poet as a boy, that does seem rather remarkable. But there is nothing at all
remarkable about a boy writing mediocre, bad or terrible poems. I wrote some
terrible poems when I was a boy, and tore them all up in frustration. That does
not make me a good poet. Nor should writing bad poems and passing them off as the
work of someone else make Chatterton a legend. But what if his poems were good,
or great? In the literary world, that is the question, because that is
what determines whether poems die, or live, and whether we remember or forget
their authors.
Before we proceed, please allow me to point out that if Chatterton's poems
have artistic merit, there really isn't a case to be made against him. If he
told the truth and really did find the poems, then he was an honest boy who was
very unfairly criminalized. On the other hand, if he wrote the poems himself, he
was not a "forger," but an unusually original artist at a very young age. In
either case, where is the case against him? I don't think there is one. But a
valid question remains: how good were the poems he wrote, since it seems
completely
obvious at this stage that he really did write the poems? Great poets praised
Chatterton. Presumably, great poets
should know good poetry when they read it. So let's take a look ...
Thomas Chatterton Timeline
1752 — Birth of Thomas Chatterton in Bristol, England on
November 20, 1752. His father dies before he is born and his family is poor.
1758 — Up to around age six or seven, young Thomas is considered "slow." But
then he discovers a manuscript with illuminated capitals; he becomes enraptured
and a voracious devourer of books.
1760 — Around age eight, Chatterton begins attending Golston's Hospital, a
Bristol charity-school: "the pupils were tonsured like monks and suspected
leanings towards religious non-conformity were punishable by expulsion."
1762 — Around age ten, Chatterton
writes his first poem, "On the Last Epiphany, or, Christ Coming to
Judgment." It appears in Felix Farley's Bristol Journal on Jan. 8,
1763. Another early poem "The Churchwarden and the Apparition, A Fable" also appears in
the Bristol Journal.
1763 — Around age eleven, Chatterton writes
"A Hymn for Christmas Day," "Apostate Will" and "Sly Dick."
1764 — Around age eleven or twelve, Chatterton writes "Apostate Will" and "Sly Dick."
He also writes
"Elinoure and Juga" (the only Rowley
poem published during Chatterton's lifetime).
1767 — At age fifteen, Chatterton becomes a scrivener (clerk) to a Bristol attorney. But when his employer catches Chatterton writing poetry, he tears
it up!
1769 — Now sixteen, Chatterton offers some of his Rowley poems to Horace
Walpole, who declines to help the poor and struggling young poet. Chatterton
writes a bitter satirical poem in reply, "To Horace Walpole." (Walpole
would later say of Chatterton: "I do not believe there ever existed so masterly
a genius.") Chatterton threatens to commit suicide, is let go by the
attorney, and moves to London
hoping to earn a living as a writer. His Rowley poem "Elinoure and
Juga" is published by Town and Country Magazine (May 1769). Despite his youth, over a period of four months Chatterton appears
in eleven of the principal publications then in circulation: the Middlesex
Journal, the Court and City Journal, the Political Register,
the London Museum, Town and Country, the Christian,
the Universal, the Gospel, the London, the Lady's,
and the Freeholder's magazines. But some of the publishers either don't
pay him, or are tardy, and he is slowly starving to death, too proud to accept
offers of meals from his landlady.
1770 — Chatterton commits suicide by drinking arsenic at age seventeen.
If your reading time is limited, or you'd like to have some idea where to start,
here in my opinion, for whatever it's worth, are the best poems of Thomas
Chatterton:
The Top Ten Poems of Thomas Chatterton (in one person's opinion)
"Song from Ælla: Under the Willow Tree" or "Minstrel's Song"
"An Excellent Ballad of Charity"
"Elegy, Written At Stanton-Drew"
"Elegy on the Death of Mr. Phillips"
"The Resignation"
"Elinoure and Juga" (written at age 12 and the only Rowley
poem published during Chatterton's lifetime)
"The ROMANCE of the KNIGHT" (a poem Chatterton modernized himself)
"To Horace Walpole"
"A Hymn for Christmas Day,"
"The Gouler's Requiem", "Apostate Will" and "Sly Dick" (all written at age 11-12)
All the poems above appear on this page, some of the Rowley poems with "modernizations." Other poems
by Chatterton were written in more modern English and can easily be read and understood in their original forms.
There has been speculation that Chatteron wrote his Rowley poems in modern English, then "backdated"
them using glossaries of archaic words. If so, it seems the originals may have been lost or destroyed.
The Resignation
by Thomas Chatterton, age unknown
O God, whose thunder shakes the sky,
Whose eye this atom globe surveys,
To thee, my only rock, I fly,
Thy mercy in thy justice praise.
The mystic mazes of thy will,
The shadows of celestial light,
Are past the pow'r of human skill,―
But what th' Eternal acts is right.
O teach me in the trying hour,
When anguish swells the dewy tear,
To still my sorrows, own thy pow'r,
Thy goodness love, thy justice fear.
If in this bosom aught but Thee
Encroaching sought a boundless sway,
Omniscience could the danger see,
And Mercy look the cause away.
Then why, my soul, dost thou complain?
Why drooping seek the dark recess?
Shake off the melancholy chain.
For God created all to bless.
But ah! my breast is human still;
The rising sigh, the falling tear,
My languid vitals' feeble rill,
The sickness of my soul declare.
But yet, with fortitude resigned,
I'll thank th' inflicter of the blow;
Forbid the sigh, compose my mind,
Nor let the gush of mis'ry flow.
The gloomy mantle of the night,
Which on my sinking spirit steals,
Will vanish at the morning light,
Which God, my East, my sun reveals.
This is a powerful, moving poem. One can imagine hearing the influences of
Charles Wesley in the first stanza, George Herbert in the fifth, John Donne
in the eighth (I believe Donne called God his "East" in one of his holy
sonnets). But Chatterton was not merely imitating other poets; he was clearly speaking
for himself in what one might call a "high romantic style" that has been
rivaled by few other poets. Phrases like "dewy tear," "languid vitals' feeble rill,"
"gush of mis'ry" and the "drooping" soul seem to anticipate (or
perhaps pave the way
for) the work of emotive poets like Shelley and Keats to come. I would hazard that this
poem rivals the best of Donne's holy sonnets, and is more powerful and moving
than the best poems in this genre by Herbert and Henry Vaughn. I don't think we
can compare Chatterton to Gerard Manley Hopkins directly because their styles
were so different, but I am inclined to say that this poem compares favorably
with the best poetic expressions of faith in the English language.
Elegy, Written At Stanton-Drew
by Thomas Chatterton, probably age 16 or earlier
Joyless I hail the solemn gloom,
Joyless I view the pillars vast and rude
Where erst the fool of Superstition trod,
In smoking blood imbrued
And rising from the tomb—
Mistaken homage to an unknown God.
Fancy, whither dost thou stray,
Whither dost thou wing thy way?
Check the rising wild delight—
Ah! what avails this awful sight?
Maria is no more!
Why, curst remembrance, wilt thou haunt my mind?
The blessings past are misery now;
Upon her lovely brow
Her lovelier soul she wore.
Soft as the evening gale
When breathing perfumes through the rose-hedged vale,
She was my joy, my happiness refined.
All hail, ye solemn horrors of this scene,
The blasted oak, the dusky green.
Ye dreary altars, by whose side
The druid-priest, in crimson dyed,
The solemn dirges sung,
And drove the golden knife
Into the palpitating seat of life,
When, rent with horrid shouts, the distant valleys rung.
The bleeding body bends,
The glowing purple stream ascends,
Whilst the troubled spirit near
Hovers in the steamy air;
Again the sacred dirge they sing,
Again the distant hill and coppice-valley ring.
Soul of my dear Maria, haste,
Whilst my languid spirits waste;
When from this my prison free,
Catch my soul, it flies to thee;
Death had doubly armed his dart,
In piercing thee, it pierced my heart.
This may be the best of Chatterton's modern English love poems.
Stanton Drew is eight miles south of Bristol, where
Chatterton lived until the last year of his life, when he moved to London. It is the site of a standing stone circle, similar to
the one at Stonehenge, with the second-largest standing stones in England. It is
thought that such sites were used for human sacrifices, to which Chatterton
alludes in the poem.
Below, the original poem appears on the left. The
translation/modernization on the right can be used as a reference or study
guide. If you prefer not to wrestle with the medieval spellings, you can start
with the translation and refer back to the original poem as you prefer. Please
keep in mind that translating or "modernizing" such a poem is far from a perfect
science. Concessions must be made to meter, if the poem is to remain rhythmic; this means sometimes adding a word here and deleting a word there,
hopefully without altering the poet's intended meaning. Chatterton is very
difficult to interpret, in spots, because it seems likely that he coined words
to suit his meter and purpose. While there is nothing "wrong" with that
(Shakespeare did the same), it is not always completely obvious what Chatterton
meant. I have tried to remain faithful to what I interpret as his "larger"
meaning. ― Michael R. Burch
An Excelente Balade of Charitie An Excellent Ballad of Charity
by Thomas Chatterton, age 17 by Thomas Chatterton, age 17
Original Version
Modernization/Translation by Michael R. Burch
In Virgynë the sweltrie sun gan sheene,
In Virgynë the swelt'ring sun grew keen,
And hotte upon the mees did caste his raie;
Then hot upon the meadows cast his ray;
The apple rodded from its palie greene,
The apple ruddied from its pallid green
rodded = ruddied, reddened
And the mole peare did bende the leafy spraie;
And the fat pear sagging bent its leafy
spray; mole = mass, greatness, pregnant (per UMMED=University of
Michigan Middle English Dictionary)
The peede chelandri sunge the livelong daie; The pied goldfinches sang the livelong day;
chelandry = goldfinch (?)
’Twas nowe the pride, the manhode of the yeare,
It was now the pride, the manhood of the year,
And eke the grounde was dighte in its moste defte aumere. And the ground was mantled in fine green cashmere.
dight(e)=prepared; aumere = mantle
The sun was glemeing in the midde of daie, The sun was gleaming in the bright mid-day,
Deadde still the aire, and eke the welken blue,
Dead-still the air, and likewise the heavens blue,
When from the sea arist in drear arraie When from the sea arose, in drear array,
A hepe of cloudes of sable sullen hue, A heap of clouds of sullen sable hue,
The which full fast unto the woodlande drewe,
Which full and fast unto the woodlands drew,
Hiltring attenes the sunnis fetive face,
Hiding at once the sun's fair festive face,
And the blacke tempeste swolne and gatherd up apace. As the black tempest swelled and gathered up apace.
Beneathe an holme, faste by a pathwaie side,
Beneath a holly tree, by a pathway's side,
holme = variant of obsolete holin, from Old English holegn =
holly, evergreen oak
Which dide unto Seyncte Godwine’s covent lede,
Which did unto Saint Godwin's convent lead,
A hapless pilgrim moneynge did abide.
A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide.
Pore in his newe, ungentle in his weede,
Poor in his sight, ungentle in his weed,
newe = in what he knew, sight, vision (?); weed = clothes, as in "widow's weeds"
Longe bretful of the miseries of neede,
Long brimful of the miseries of need,
bretful = brimful (perhaps breast-full?); from from Old English brerd
(top, brim)
Where from the hail-stone coulde the almer flie?
Where from the hailstones could the almer fly?
almer = taker of alms, beggar
He had no housen theere, ne anie covent nie.
He had no shelter there, nor any convent nigh.
Look in his glommed face, his sprighte there scanne;
Look in his gloomy face; his sprite there scan;
Howe woe-be-gone, how withered, forwynd, deade!
How woebegone, how withered, winded, dead!
forwynd = winded (?), taking one's last breath (?), fruitless (?)
Haste to thie church-glebe-house, asshrewed manne!
Haste to thy church-glebe-house, accursèd man!
church-glebe-house = parsonage, house built in a churchyard or on church
property
Haste to thie kiste, thie onlie dortoure bedde.
Haste to thy crypt, thy only restful bed.
dourtoure = a sleeping room (per Chatterton)
Cale, as the claie whiche will gre on thie hedde,
Cold, as the clay which will grow on thy head,
Is Charitie and Love aminge highe elves;
Is Charity and Love among high elves;
Knightis and Barons live for pleasure and themselves.
Knights and Barons live for pleasure and themselves.
The gatherd storme is rype; the bigge drops falle;
The gathered storm is ripe; the huge drops fall;
The forswat meadowes smethe, and drenche the raine;
The sweating meadows smoke and drink the rain; forswat = overheated, covered in sweat; smethe = smoke (perhaps related to
"smith"?)
The comyng ghastness do the cattle pall,
The coming aghastness makes the cattle pale;
And the full flockes are drivynge ore the plaine;
And the full flocks are driving o'er the plain;
Dashde from the cloudes the waters flott againe;
Dashed from the clouds, the waters float again;
flott = float, flood, fly, gush (?)
The welkin opes; the yellow levynne flies;
The heavens gape; the yellow lightning flies;
And the hot fierie smothe in the wide lowings dies.
And the hot fiery steam in the wide flamepot dies.
lowings = flame
Liste! now the thunder’s rattling clymmynge sound Hark! now the thunder's rattling, clamoring sound
Cheves slowlie on, and then embollen clangs,
Heaves slowly on, and then emboldened clangs,
embollen = swollen; "emboldened" seems closer in sound and meaning here
Shakes the hie spyre, and losst, dispended, drown’d,
Shakes the high spire, and lost, dispended, drown'd,
Still on the gallard eare of terroure hanges;
Still on the coward ear of terror hangs; gallard = frightened (perhaps related to "coward"?);
fear-galled (?)
The windes are up; the lofty elmen swanges;
The winds are up; the lofty elm-tree swings;
Again the levynne and the thunder poures,
Again the lightning―then the thunder pours,
And the full cloudes are braste attenes in stonen showers. And
the full clouds are burst at once in stormy showers. braste =
burst
Spurreynge his palfrie oere the watrie plaine, Spurring
his palfrey o'er the watery plain,
The Abbote of Seyncte Godwynes convente came; The Abbot of Saint
Godwin's convent came;
His chapournette was drented with the reine,
His chapournette was drenchèd with the rain,
chapournette = a small round hat, worn by ecclesiastics and lawyers (per Chatterton)
And his pencte gyrdle met with mickle shame; And his
pinched
girdle met with enormous shame; pencte = pinched (?); was the "enormous shame" a fat belly,
perhaps?
He aynewarde tolde his bederoll at the same; He cursing
backwards gave his hymns the same;
bede = prayer, thus prayer-book or hymnal; Chatterton mentioned cursing
regarding this line
The storme encreasen, and he drew aside,
The storm increased, and thus he drew aside
With the mist almes craver neere to the holme to bide. With the
poor
alms-craver, near the holly tree to bide.
holme = variant of obsolete holin, from Old English holegn =
holly; mist = in need, poor
His cope was all of Lyncolne clothe so fyne, His cape was
all of Lincoln-cloth so fine,
With a gold button fasten’d neere his chynne; With a gold
button fasten'd near his chin;
His autremete was edged with golden twynne, His ermine robe
was edged with golden twine,
And his shoone pyke a loverds mighte have binne; And his high-heeled
shoes a Baron's might have been;
loverds = lord's (?), lover's (?); pyke = pike, heel (?)
Full well it shewn he thoughten coste no sinne: Full
well it showed he considered cost no sin;
The trammels of the palfrye pleasde his sighte, The trammels
of the palfrey pleased his sight
For the horse-millanare his head with roses dighte. For the
horse-milliner loved rosy ribbons bright. Here, I believe Chatterton is describing a horse decked out with roses on its
reins and in its mane.
“An almes, sir prieste!” the droppynge pilgrim saide, "An alms, Sir
Priest!" the drooping pilgrim said,
“O! let me waite within your covente dore, "Oh, let
me wait within your convent door,
Till the sunne sheneth hie above our heade, Till the
sun shineth high above our head,
And the loude tempeste of the aire is oer;
And the loud tempest of the air is o'er;
Helpless and ould am I alas! and poor;
Helpless and old am I, alas!, and poor;
No house, ne friend, ne moneie in my pouche; No house, no
friend, no money in my purse;
All yatte I call my owne is this my silver crouche.” All that I call
my own is this―my silver cross.
“Varlet,” replyd the Abbatte, “cease your dinne; "Varlet," replied
the Abbott, "cease your din;
This is no season almes and prayers to give; This is no
season alms and prayers to give;
Mie porter never lets a faitour in;
My porter never lets a beggar in;
None touch mie rynge who not in honour live.” None touch my
ring who in dishonor live."
And now the sonne with the blacke cloudes did stryve, And now the sun with
the blackened clouds did strive,
And shettynge on the grounde his glairie raie, And
shed upon the ground his glaring ray;
As soon as the sun breaks through with a ray of light, the Abbot deserts the
beggar!
The Abbatte spurrde his steede, and eftsoones roadde The
Abbot spurred his steed, and swiftly rode away.
awaie.
Once moe the skie was blacke, the thunder rolde; Once more the sky
grew black; the thunder rolled;
Faste reyneynge oer the plaine a prieste was seen; Fast running
o'er the plain a priest was seen;
Ne dighte full proude, ne buttoned up in golde; Not full of
pride, not buttoned up in gold;
His cope and jape were graie, and eke were clene; His cape and jape
were gray, and also clean;
jape = a short surplice worn by friars of inferior class (per Chatterton)
A Limitoure he was of order seene;
A Limitour he was, his order serene;
Limitoure = a licensed begging friar (per Chatterton);
here "seene" may suggest something noticeable/notable
And from the pathwaie side then turned hee,
And from the pathway side he turned to see
Where the pore almer laie binethe the holmen tree.
Where the poor almer lay beneath the holly tree.
holme = variant of obsolete holin, from Old English holegn =
holly
“An almes, sir priest!” the droppynge pilgrim sayde,
"An alms, Sir Priest!" the drooping pilgrim said,
“For sweete Seyncte Marie and your order sake.”
"For sweet Saint Mary and your order's sake."
The Limitoure then loosen’d his pouche threade,
The Limitour then loosen'd his purse's thread,
And did thereoute a groate of silver take;
And from it did a groat of silver take;
The mister pilgrim dyd for halline shake.
The needy pilgrim did for happiness shake.
mist = need (UMMED); halline perhaps related to Allen (harmony)?
“Here take this silver, it maie eathe thie care;
"Here, take this silver, it may ease thy care;
We are Goddes stewards all, nete of oure owne we bare. "We are God's
stewards all, naught of our own we bear."
“But ah! unhailie pilgrim, lerne of me,
"But ah! unhappy pilgrim, learn of me,
Scathe anie give a rentrolle to their Lorde.
Scarce any give a rentroll to their Lord.
Here take my semecope, thou arte bare I see;
Here, take my cloak, as thou are bare, I see;
semecope = short cloak
Tis thyne; the Seynctes will give me mie rewarde.”
'Tis thine; the Saints will give me my reward."
He left the pilgrim, and his waie aborde.
He left the pilgrim, went his way abroad.
aborde = went on (per Chatterton)
Virgynne and hallie Seyncte, who sitte yn gloure,
Virgin and happy Saints, in glory showered,
Or give the mittee will, or give the gode man power.
Let the mighty bend, or the good man be empowered!
I interpret Chatterton to be saying, "Give the mighty (your) will, or give power
to the good man."
TRANSLATOR'S NOTES: It is possible that some words used by Chatterton were his
own coinages; some of them apparently cannot be found in other medieval
literature. In a few places I have used similar-sounding words that seem to not
overly disturb the meaning of the poem, which are not "exact matches" for the
original poem's words. ― Michael R. Burch
John Keats dedicated his poem "Endymion" to Thomas Chatterton and wrote a
"Sonnet to Chatterton." Samuel Taylor Coleridge's first published poem
was "Monody on the Death of
Chatterton" in which he called Chatterton a "heaven-born genius" and a "sweet harper."
Chatterton stared the poem when he was 13 and revised it at least six times over
a period of almost 50 years. The final version was published shortly before his
death in 1834. William
Wordsworth called Chatterton "the marvelous boy" in his poem "Resolution and
Independence." Percy Bysshe Shelley mentioned the "rose pale" Chatterton
with obvious affection and admiration; in his tribute poem to Keats, "Adonais,"
Shelley named Chatterton among the "inheritors of unfulfilled renown."
Lord Byron compared him favorably to Burns and Wordsworth for purity and
avoiding vulgar displays of elegance. Dr. Samuel Johnson told his biographer Boswell: "This is the most
extraordinary young man that has encountered my knowledge. It is wonderful how
the whelp has written such things." Dante Gabriel Rossetti called
Chatterton "the
true day-spring of Romantic poetry." Robert Browning praised Chatterton's
gift for imitation.
Joseph Warton said that Chatterton was "a prodigy of genius, and would have
proved the first of English poets had he reached a mature age." Dr. Samuel
Johnson said of him, "This is the most extraordinary young man that has
encountered my knowledge." Edmond Malone declared him to be "the greatest genius
that England has produced since the days of Shakespeare." Britton, Southey,
Wordsworth, Byron, Moore, Scott, Campbell, have all spoken of him in the highest
terms, and Dante Gabriel Rossetti called him "the absolutely miraculous
Chatterton" and declared him to be "as great as any English poet whatever."
Keats called Chatterton "the most English of poets except Shakespeare." One very
interesting thing about Chatterton―and there are so
many!―is the high percentage of "native" English words that he uses (by which I
mean words that predate French and later additions to the language). Chatterton
seems to have had a natural affiliation for, and a strong inclination to use,
the older words in the English lexicon. Keats also called him the "purest writer
in the English language." When Chatterton wrote, he went back to Rossetti's
"day-spring" of Romantic poetry: the well that Chaucer first drew from.
Song from Ælla: Under the Willow Tree, or, Minstrel's Song
by Thomas Chatterton, age 17
Modernization/Translation by Michael R. Burch
MYNSTRELLES SONGE
O! synge untoe mie roundelaie,
O! sing unto my roundelay,
O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
O! drop the briny tear with me,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
Dance no more at holy-day,
Lycke a reynynge ryver bee;
Like a running river be:
Mie love ys dedde,
My love is dead,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Gone to his death-bed
Al under the wyllowe tree.
All under the willow-tree.
Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte,
Black his crown as the winter night, cryne = crown, hair,
locks
Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe,
White his flesh as the summer snow, rode = complexion, skin, flesh
Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte,
Red his face as the morning light,
Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe;
Cold he lies in the grave below:
Mie love ys dedde,
My love is dead,
Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Gone to his death-bed
Al under the wyllowe tree.
All under the willow-tree.
Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note,
Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee,
Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote, 860
O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree:
Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Alle underre the wyllowe tree.
Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, 865
In the briered delle belowe;
Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge,
To the nyghte-mares as heie goe;
Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, 870
Al under the wyllowe tree.
See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude;
Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie,
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude: 875
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
Heere, uponne mie true loves grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde. 880
Nee one hallie Seyncte to save
Al the celness of a mayde.
Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys death-bedde,
Alle under the wyllowe tree. 885
Wythe mie hondes I'lle dente the brieres
Rounde his hallie corse to gre,
Ouphante fairie, lyghte youre fyres,
Heere mie boddie stylle schalle bee.
Mie love ys dedde, 890
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
Comme, wythe acorne-coppe & thorne,
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;
Lyfe & all yttes goode I scorne, 895
Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie.
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes[103], 900
Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.
I die; I comme; mie true love waytes.
Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.
Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought can be,
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the briar'd dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares, as they go:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud:
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Here upon my true-love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid;
Not one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
With my hands I'll frame the briars dent = fasten,
gird, frame; "With my hands I'll frame the briars"
Round his holy corpse to grow:
corse = corpse (?); gre = grow; "Round his
holy corpse to grow"
Elf and fairy, light your fires, ouph = elf;
"Elf and Fairy"
Here my body, stilled, shall go:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heartès blood away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
The poem (or song) above is, in my opinion, quite competitive with Shakespeare's
songs in his plays, and may be the best of Thomas Chatterton's work.
Bristol
by Thomas Chatterton, age 16
The Muses have no Credit here; and Fame
Confines itself to the mercantile name.
Bristol may keep her prudent maxims still;
I scorn her Prudence, and I ever will.
Since all my vices magnify'd are here,
She cannot paint me worse than I appear.
When raving in the lunacy of ink,
I catch the Pen and publish what I think.
The lines above were apparently written by Chatterton to explain to his literate
friends why he chose to leave Bristol for London at age sixteen.
Sentiment
by Thomas Chatterton, age 17
Since we can die but once, what matters it,
If rope or garter, poison, pistol, sword,
Slow-wasting sickness, or the sudden burst
Of valve arterial in the noble parts,
Curtail the miseries of human life?
Though varied is the cause, the effect's the same:
All to one common dissolution tends.
The lines above apparently reflect Chatterton's views on the manner of a human
being's passing. He also wrote that he did not
consider suicide to be a crime, at a time when it was considered a "mortal sin"
by church, state and courts. For instance, Hume's Essay on Suicide was not published until after his
death in 1777, and seven years after Chatterton's. When the essay was finally
published, it was almost immediately suppressed. The idea that human beings had
a right to end their lives was still very much ahead of its time. Unsuccessful
suicides would continue to face public scorn, and either prison or the gallows.
The Methodist
by Thomas Chatterton, age 17
Says Tom to Jack, 'tis very odd,
These representatives of God,
In color, way of life and evil,
Should be so very like the devil.
Toward the end of his life, Chatterton wrote that he was "no Christian." He
seemed to especially dislike the hypocrisy and lack of compassion and good works
that he saw in organized religion and its representatives, as the lines above
demonstrate.
On
The Last Epiphany (or, Christ Coming To Judgment)
by Thomas Chatterton, age 10
Behold! just coming from above,
The judge, with majesty and love!
The sky divides, and rolls away,
T'admit him through the realms of day!
The sun, astonished, hides its face,
The moon and stars with wonder gaze
At Jesu's bright superior rays!
Dread lightnings flash, and thunders roar,
And shake the earth and briny shore;
The trumpet sounds at heaven's command,
And pierceth through the sea and land;
The dead in each now hear the voice,
The sinners fear and saints rejoice;
For now the awful hour is come,
When every tenant of the tomb
Must rise, and take his everlasting doom.
As far as I have been able to determine, this is the first poem written by
Thomas Chatterton, when he was around age ten, if not younger. While I wouldn't
call the poem a masterpiece, it does exhibit good meter, rhyme, imagery and
drama (especially in the last three lines). It is obviously a remarkable poem
for a child to have written. "The sun, astonished, hides its face" is an
arresting image. "Dread lightnings flash, and thunders roar" is another.
A Hymn For Christmas Day
by Thomas Chatterton, age 11
Almighty Framer of the Skies!
O let our pure devotion rise,
Like Incense in thy Sight!
Wrapt in impenetrable Shade
The Texture of our Souls were made
Till thy Command gave light.
The Sun of Glory gleam'd the Ray,
Refin'd the Darkness into Day,
And bid the Vapours fly;
Impell'd by his eternal Love
He left his Palaces above
To cheer our gloomy Sky.
How shall we celebrate the day,
When God appeared in mortal clay,
The mark of worldly scorn;
When the Archangel's heavenly Lays,
Attempted the Redeemer's Praise
And hail'd Salvation's Morn!
A Humble Form the Godhead wore,
The Pains of Poverty he bore,
To gaudy Pomp unknown;
Tho' in a human walk he trod
Still was the Man Almighty God
In Glory all his own.
Despis'd, oppress'd, the Godhead bears
The Torments of this Vale of tears;
Nor bade his Vengeance rise;
He saw the Creatures he had made,
Revile his Power, his Peace invade;
He saw with Mercy's Eyes.
How shall we celebrate his Name,
Who groan'd beneath a Life of shame
In all Afflictions tried!
The Soul is raptured to conceive
A Truth, which Being must believe,
The God Eternal died.
My Soul exert thy Powers, adore,
Upon Devotion's plumage soar
To celebrate the Day;
The God from whom Creation sprung
Shall animate my grateful Tongue;
From him I'll catch the Lay!
This is a fine hymn, one worthy of a seasoned composer. The first stanza is
especially good, and the entire hymn is commendable. That a child wrote it makes
it a wonder.
The Churchwarden and the Apparition: A Fable
by Thomas Chatterton, age 11
The night was cold, the wind was high,
And stars bespangled all the sky;
Churchwarden Joe had laid him down,
And slept secure on bed of down;
But still the pleasing hope of gain,
That never left his active brain,
Exposed the churchyard to his view,
That seat of treasure wholly new.
“Pull down that cross,” he quickly cried,
The mason instantly complied:
When lo! behold, the golden prize
Appears—joy sparkles in his eyes.
The door now creaks, the window shakes,
With sudden fear he starts and wakes;
Quaking and pale, in eager haste
His haggard eyes around he cast;
A ghastly phantom, lean and wan,
That instant rose, and thus began:
“Weak wretch—to think to blind my eyes!
Hypocrisy’s a thin disguise;
Your humble mien and fawning tongue
Have oft deceived the old and young.
On this side now, and now on that,
The very emblem of the bat:
Whatever part you take, we know
’Tis only interest makes it so,
And though with sacred zeal you burn,
Religion’s only for your turn;
I’m Conscience called!” Joe greatly feared;
The lightning flashed—it disappeared.
This poem is, perhaps, average in places for a more mature poet, but quite vivid
in others. Again, for a child it is rather remarkable. And I think the
perception that the churchwarden saw the churchyard as a "seat of treasure" and
his "hope of gain" is remarkable for a child.
Sly Dick
by Thomas Chatterton, age 11
Sharp was the frost, the wind was high
And sparkling stars bedeckt the sky
Sly Dick in arts of cunning skill'd,
Whose rapine all his pockets fill'd,
Had laid him down to take his rest
And soothe with sleep his anxious breast.
'Twas thus a dark infernal sprite
A native of the blackest night,
Portending mischief to devise
Upon Sly Dick he cast his eyes;
Then straight descends the infernal sprite,
And in his chamber does alight;
In visions he before him stands,
And his attention he commands.
Thus spake the sprite―hearken my friend,
And to my counsels now attend.
Within the garret's spacious dome
There lies a well stor'd wealthy room,
Well stor'd with cloth and stockings too,
Which I suppose will do for you,
First from the cloth take thou a purse,
For thee it will not be the worse,
A noble purse rewards thy pains,
A purse to hold thy filching gains;
Then for the stockings let them reeve
And not a scrap behind thee leave,
Five bundles for a penny sell
And pence to thee will come pell mell;
See it be done with speed and care
Thus spake the sprite and sunk in air.
When in the morn with thoughts erect
Sly Dick did on his dreams reflect,
Why faith, thinks he, 'tis something too,
It might―perhaps―it might be true,
I'll go and see―away he hies,
And to the garret quick he flies,
Enters the room, cuts up the clothes
And after that reeves up the hose;
Then of the cloth he purses made,
Purses to hold his filching trade.
This is, indeed, a sly poem for a child to write. Again, it demonstrates
considerable perception.
Apostate Will
by Thomas Chatterton, age 11
In days of old, when Wesley's power
Gathered new strength by every hour;
Apostate Will, just sunk in trade,
Resolved his bargain should be made;
Then strait to Wesley he repairs,
And puts on grave and solemn airs;
Then thus the pious man addressed.
Good sir, I think your doctrine best;
Your servant will a Wesley be,
Therefore the principles teach me.
The preacher then instructions gave.
How he in this world should behave;
He hears, assents, and gives a nod,
Says every word's the word of God,
Then lifting his dissembling eyes,
How blessed is the sect! he cries;
Nor Bingham, Young, nor Stillingfleet,
Shall make me from this sect retreat.
He then his circumstances declared,
How hardly with him matters fared,
Begg'd him next morning for to make
A small collection for his sake.
The preacher said, Do not repine,
The whole collection shall be thine.
With looks demure and cringing bows,
About his business strait he goes.
His outward acts were grave and prim,
The methodist appear'd in him.
But, be his outward what it will,
His heart was an apostate's still.
He'd oft profess an hallow'd flame,
And every where preach'd Wesley's name;
He was a preacher, and what not,
As long as money could be got;
He'd oft profess, with holy fire.
The labourer's worthy of his hire.
It happen'd once upon a time,
When all his works were in their prime,
A noble place appear'd in view;
Then ______ to the methodists, adieu.
A methodist no more he'll be,
The protestants serve best for he.
Then to the curate strait he ran,
And thus address'd the rev'rend man:
I was a methodist, tis true;
With penitence I turn to you.
O that it were your bounteous will
That I the vacant place might fill!
With justice I'd myself acquit,
Do every thing that's right and fit.
The curate straitway gave consent―
To take the place he quickly went.
Accordingly he took the place,
And keeps it with dissembled grace.
This is another sly, very perceptive poem. Lines like: "Then lifting his dissembling eyes,
How blessed is the sect! he cries" are worthy of a mature satirist. Again, we
have a damn good poem for a mature poet, a wonder for a child.
Elinoure and Juga
by Thomas Chatterton, age 12
Published in Town and Country Magazine (May 1769) pp 273-74.
Onne Ruddeborne bank twa pynynge maydens sate,
Theire teares faste dryppeyn to the waterre cleere;
Echone bementynge for her absente mate,
Who atte Seyncte Albonns shouke the morthynge speare.
The nottebrowne Ellynor to Juga fayre,
Dydde speke acroole, with languyshmente of eyne,
Lyke droppes of pearlie dew, lemed the quyvrynge brine.
ELINOURE.
O gentle Juga! hear mie dernie plainte,
To fyghte for Yorke mie love is dyght in stele;
O mai ne sanguen steine the whyte rose peyncte;
Maie good Seyncte Cuthberte watch Syrre Robynne wele.
Moke moe thanne deathe in phantasie I feelle;
See! see! upon the grounde he bleedynge lies!
Inhild some joice of life, or else my deare love dies.
JUGA.
Systers in sorrowe on thys daise-ey'd banke,
Where melancholych broods we wylle lamente:
Be wette with mornynge dewe and evene danke;
Lyche levynde okes in eche the oder bente,
Or lyke forletten halles of merriemente,
Whose gastlie mitches holde the traine of fryghte,
Where lethale ravens bark, and owlets wake the nyghte.
No mo the miskynette shalle wake the morne,
The minstrelle daunce, good cheere, and morryce plaie;
No mo the amblynge palfrie and the horne,
Shall from the lessel rouze the foxe awaie:
I'll seke the forest alle the lyve-longe daie:
Alle nete amenge the gravde chirche glebe wyll go,
And to the passante spryghtes lecture mie tale of woe.
Whan mokie cloudes do hange upon the leme,
Of leden moon ynn sylver mantels dyghte:
The tryppeynge faeries weve the golden dreme,
Of selyness, whyche flyethe with the nyghte:
Thenne (butte the seynctes forbydde!) gif to a spryghte,
Syrre Rychardes forme is lyped; I'll holde dystraughte,
Hys bledeynge clai-colde corse, and die eche daie yn thoughte.
ELINOURE.
Ah woe bementynge wordes; what wordes can shewe!
Thou limed river on thie Linche mai bleede,
Champyons, whose bloude wylle wythe thie waterres flowe,
And Rudborne streeme be Rudborne streeme indeede!
Haste gentle Juga trippe ytte oere the meade,
To know or wheder wee muste waile agayne,
Or whythe oure fallen knyghte be menged onne the plain.
So saeing lyke twa levyn blasted-trees,
Or twain of cloudes that holdeth stormie raine;
Theie moved gentle o'ere the dewie mees;
To where Seyncte Albons holie shrynes remayne.
There dyd theye finde that bothe their knyghtes were sleyne;
Distraughte: thei wandered to swollen Rudborne's syde.
Yelled theyre leathalle knelle; sonke in the waves and dyde.
This poem is a war-eclogue in seven rhyme-royal Spenserians, "Written three hundred Years ago
by T. Rowley, a Secular Priest" (p. 273). The poem, the only Rowley poem to be
published in Chatterton's lifetime, is signed with Chatterton's usual signature,
"D. B. Bristol, May, 1769."
Herbert Croft: "In 'an account of the most celebrated monasteries in Europe'
(April, p. 201.) mention is made of the abbey of St. Alban's, which was
suppressed at the dissolution of the monasteries. The scene of Elinoure and Juga
(in the next month, May, p. 272.) is laid on Ruddeborne bank, a river near St.
Alban's (as we learn from Chatterton's notes); and after the dialogue, Elinoure
and Juga — 'moved gentle o'er the dewy mees, | To where St. Alban's holy shrines
remain.'" (Love and Madness, 1780, p. 218)
George Gregory: "The last of these pastorals, called Elinoure and Juga, is one
of the finest pathetic tales I have ever read. The complaint of two young
females lamenting their lovers slain in the wars of York and Lancaster, was one
of the happiest subjects that could be chosen for a tragic pastoral." (Life of
Chatterton, 1789, in Works of Chatterton, 1803, 1:cxxx)
Percival Stockdale: "You will certainly allow that he was equal to the tender
melancholy of elegy, when I give you some lines from his Elinoure and Juga.
This poem was sent to the man [Horace Walpole] who deprived himself of the high honour of giving
an easy, and effectual protection, and encouragement to Chatterton. It was,
indeed, a most extraordinary performance, from a boy. Whether he had sent it as
his own, or as the production of another, will always be of very little
consequence with generous minds, when they reflect that such poetical excellence
was achieved by tender years. It would have affected into liberality any
literary heart but that of a Walpole." (Lectures on the truly eminent English
Poets, 1807, p. 321-322)
Oliver Elton: "The Rowley romance ... began as a piece of childish make-believe,
formed itself into a poetic dream, and became, by easy degrees, an elaborated
hoax. The stages are not to be sharply distinguished or precisely dated, and all
three were present to the end. The charm of black-letter, and of the illuminated
capitals, is said to have stirred Chatterton before he was seven; and the
vellums, saved from the muniment room of St. Mary Redcliffe, are thought to have
set him on the track of his inventions. Elinoure and Juga, according to one
story, was written at the age of twelve. In any case, his whole mind came to be
subdued, without scruple, to his creative fancy. The tombs and brasses, the
science of blazonry, the historic figure of William Canynge the Mayor, the
eighteenth-century glossaries of the younger John Kersey and of Nathan Bailey,
the poetry of the Elizabethans and Chaucer — out of all this Chatterton came to
build a fictitious world, peopled by poets and patrons of poets; and he began to
pass off upon the local antiquaries, and on citizens concerned for the glory of
Bristol, the series of poems by an imaginary Thomas Rowley, a monk and the
confessor of Canynge." (Survey of English Literature 1730-80, 1928,
2:108)
A modernized version in heroic couplets was published in Town and Country
Magazine the following month, signed "S. W. A. aged 16" — said to be Richard Nares, afterwards editor of the
British Critic. Two later rhyme-royal
modernizations were later published, in Weekly Magazine or Edinburgh Amusement
43 (30 December 1778) pp. 14-15; and in European Magazine 18 (September 1790)
pp. 224-25.
The Gouler's Requiem
by Thomas Chatterton, age 12
Mie boolie entes, adiewe: ne more the syghte
Of guilden merke shalle mete mie joieous eyne;
Ne moe the sylver noble sheenynge bryghte,
Shalle fylle mie hande wythe weighte to speke ytte fyne;
Ne moe, ne moe, alas, I calle you myne;
Whyder must you, ah! whydder moste I goe?
I kenne not either! Oh mie emmers dygne,
To parte wythe you wyll wurche me myckle woe.
I must begon, butte where I dare nott telle,
O storthe unto mie mynde! I goe to helle.
Soone as the morne dyd dyghte the roddie sunne,
A shade of theves eache streacke of lyghte dyd seeme;
Whan yn the Heaven full half hys course was ronne,
Eche styrrynge nayghbour dyd mie harte afleme;
Thie Losse, or quyck or slepe, was aie mie dreme;
For thee, O goulde, I did the lawe ycrase,
For thee I gotten or bie wiles or breme;
Ynn thee I all mie joie and goode dyd place;
Botte nowe to mee thie pleasaunce ys ne moe,
I kenne notte botte for thee I to the quede muste goe.
The ROMAUNTE of the CNYGHTE
By JOHN' DE BERGHAM (Thomas Chatterton)
From a ms. in Chatterton's hand-writing, in the possession of Mr. Cottle
The Sunne ento Vyrgyne was gotten,
The floureys al arounde onspryngede,
The woddie Grasse blaunched the Fenne
The Quenis Ermyne arised fro Bedde;
Syr Knyghte dyd ymounte oponn a Stede
Ke Rouncie ne Drybblette of make
Romaunte: Romance
Cnyghte: Knight
Onspryngede: faded, fallen
Woddie: woody
Blaunched: whitened
Rouncie: a cart horse, or one put to menial services
Dhybblette: small, little
The ROMANCE of the KNIGHT
MODERNISED By THOMAS CHATTERTON
From a ms. of Chatterton's in the possession of Mr. Cottle
The pleasing Sweets of Spring and Summer past,
The falling Leaf flies in the sultry blast,
The Fields resign their spangling Orbs of Gold,
The wrinkled Grass its Silver Joys unfold
Mantling the spreading Moor in Heavenly white,
Meeting from every Hill the ravished sight.
The yellow Flag uprears its spotted Head,
Hanging regardant o'er its wat'ry bed:
The worthy Knight ascends his foaming Steed,
Of Size uncommon, and no common Breed.
To Horace Walpole
by Thomas Chatterton, age 17
WALPOLE, I thought not I should ever see
So mean a heart as thine has proved to be.
Thou who, in luxury nurst, behold'st with scorn
The boy, who friendless, fatherless, forlorn,
Asks thy high favour—thou mayst call me cheat.
Say, didst thou never practise such deceit?
Who wrote Otranto? but I will not chide:
Scorn I'll repay with scorn, and pride with pride.
Still, Walpole, still thy prosy chapters write,
And twaddling letters to some fair indite;
Laud all above thee, fawn and cringe to those
Who, for thy fame, were better friends than foes;
Still spurn th' incautious fool who dares—
Had I the gifts of wealth and luxury shared,
Not poor and mean, Walpole! thou hadst not dared
Thus to insult. But I shall live and stand
By Rowley's side, when thou art dead and damned.
Elegy On The
Death Of Mr. Phillips
by Thomas Chatterton, age 16
No more I hail the morning's golden gleam,
No more the wonders of the view I sing;
Friendship requires a melancholy theme,
At her command the awful lyre I string!
Now as I wander through this leafless grove,
Where tempests howl, and blasts eternal rise,
How shall I teach the chorded shell to move,
Or stay the gushing torrent from my eyes?
Phillips! great master of the boundless lyre,
The would my soul-rack'd muse attempt to paint;
Give me a double portion of thy fire,
Or all the powers of language are too faint.
Say, soul unsullied by the filth of vice,
Say, meek-eyed spirit, where's thy tuneful shell,
Which when the silver stream was lock'd with ice,
Was wont to cheer the tempest-ravaged dell?
Oft as the filmy veil of evening drew
The thick'ning shade upon the vivid green,
Thou, lost in transport at the dying view,
Bid'st the ascending muse display the scene.
When golden Autumn, wreathed in ripen'd corn,
From purple clusters prest the foamy wine,
Thy genius did his sallow brows adorn,
And made the beauties of the season thine.
With rustling sound the yellow foliage flies,
And wantons with the wind in rapid whirls;
The gurgling riv'let to the valley hies,
Whilst on its bank the spangled serpent curls.
The joyous charms of Spring delighted saw
Their beauties doubly glaring in thy lay;
Nothing was Spring which Phillips did not draw,
And every image of his muse was May.
So rose the regal hyacinthial star,
So shone the verdure of the daisied bed,
So seemed the forest glimmering from afar;
You saw the real prospect as you read.
Majestic Summer's blooming flow'ry pride
Next claim'd the honour of his nervous song;
He taught the stream in hollow trills to glide,
And led the glories of the year along.
Pale rugged Winter bending o'er his tread,
His grizzled hair bedropt with icy dew;
His eyes, a dusky light congealed and dead,
His robe, a tinge of bright ethereal blue.
His train a motley'd, sanguine, sable cloud,
He limps along the russet, dreary moor,
Whilst rising whirlwinds, blasting, keen, and loud,
Roll the white surges to the sounding shore.
Nor were his pleasures unimproved by thee;
Pleasures he has, though horridly deform'd;
The polished lake, the silver'd hill we see,
Is by thy genius fired, preserved, and warm'd.
The rough October has his pleasures too;
But I'm insensible to every joy:
Farewell the laurel! now I grasp the yew,
And all my little powers in grief employ.
Immortal shadow of my much-loved friend!
Clothed in thy native virtue meet my soul,
When on the fatal bed, my passions bend,
And curb my floods of anguish as they roll.
In thee each virtue found a pleasing cell,
Thy mind was honour, thy soul divine;
With thee did every god of genius dwell,
Thou was the Helicon of all the nine.
Fancy, whose various figure-tinctured vest
Was ever changing to a different hue;
Her head, with varied bays and flow'rets drest,
Her eyes, two spangles of the morning dew.
With dancing attitude she swept thy string;
And now she soars, and now again descends;
And now reclining on the zephyr's wing,
Unto the velvet-vested mead she bends.
Peace, deck'd in all the softness of the dove,
Over thy passions spread her silver plume;
The rosy veil of harmony and love
Hung on thy soul in eternal bloom.
Peace, gentlest, softest of the virtues, spread
Her silver pinions, wet with dewy tears,
Upon her best distinguished poet's head,
And taught his lyre the music of the spheres.
Temp'rance, with health and beauty in her train,
And massy-muscled strength in graceful pride,
Pointed at scarlet luxury and pain,
And did at every frugal feast preside.
Black melancholy stealing to the shade
With raging madness, frantic, loud, and dire,
Whose bloody hand displays the reeking blade,
Were strangers to thy heaven-directed lyre.
Content, who smiles in every frown of fate,
Wreath'd thy pacific brow and sooth'd thy ill:
In thy own virtues and thy genius great,
The happy muse laid every trouble still.
But see! the sick'ning lamp of day retires,
And the meek evening shakes the dusky grey;
The west faint glimmers with the saffron fires,
And like thy life, O Phillips! dies away.
Here, stretched upon this heaven-ascending hill,
I'll wait the horrors of the coming night,
I'll imitate the gently-plaintive rill,
And by the glare of lambent vapours write.
Wet with the dew the yellow hawthorns bow;
The rustic whistles through the echoing cave;
Far o'er the lea the breathing cattle low,
And the full Avon lifts the darken'd wave.
Now, as the mantle of the evening swells
Upon my mind, I feel a thick'ning gloom!
Ah! could I charm by necromantic spells
The soul of Phillips from the deathy tomb!
Then would we wander through the darken'd vale,
In converse such as heavenly spirits use,
And, borne upon the pinions of the gale,
Hymn the Creator, and exert the muse.
But, horror to reflection! now no more
Will Phillips sing, the wonder of the plain!
When, doubting whether they might not adore,
Admiring mortals heard his nervous strain.
See! see! the pitchy vapour hides the lawn,
Nought but a doleful bell of death is heard,
Save where into a blasted oak withdrawn
The scream proclaims the curst nocturnal bird.
Now, rest my muse, but only rest to weep
A friend made dear by every sacred tie;
Unknown to me be comfort peace or sleep:
Phillips is dead- 'tis pleasure then to die.
Few are the pleasures Chatterton e'er knew,
Short were the moments of his transient peace;
But melancholy robb'd him of those few,
And this hath bid all future comfort cease.
And can the muse be silent, Phillips gone!
And am I still alive? My soul, arise!
The robe of immortality put on,
And meet thy Phillips in his native skies.
Chatterton’s appearance has been described by those who were familiar with it.
According to them all he was well grown and manly, having a proud air and a
stately bearing. Whenever he cared to ingratiate himself, he is said to have
been exceedingly repossessing; though as a rule he bore himself as a conscious
and acknowledged superior. His eyes, which were grey and very brilliant, were
evidently his most remarkable feature. One was brighter than the other (Gent.
Mag. new ser. x. 133), appearing even larger than the other when flashing under
strong excitement. George Catcott describes it as "a kind of hawk’s eye," adding
that "one could see his soul through it." William Barrett, who had observed him
keenly as an anatomist, said "he never saw such eyes—fire rolling at the bottom
of them." He acknowledged to Sir Herbert Croft (Love and Madness, p. 272) that
he had often purposely differed in opinion from Chatterton "to see how
wonderfully his eye would strike fire, kindle, and blaze up!"
Chatterton Quotes
"The mad genius by birthright."―John Evans
Chatterton "excelled in every species of composition."―William
Wordsworth
" ... it is fair to proclaim him the very first of all premature
geniuses."―Joseph Cottle
Joseph Warton said that Chatterton was "a prodigy of genius, and would have
proved the first of English poets had he reached a mature age."
Edmond Malone declared him to be "the greatest genius
that England has produced since the days of Shakespeare."
Dante Gabriel Rossetti called him "the absolutely miraculous
Chatterton" and declared him to be "as great as any English poet whatever."
John Keats dedicated his poem "Endymion" to Thomas Chatterton and wrote a
"Sonnet to Chatterton" in which he praised the "flash" of his "Genius" and
his "voice, majestic and elate."
Percy Bysshe Shelley mentioned the "rose pale" Chatterton with obvious affection
and admiration; in his tribute poem to Keats, "Adonais," Shelley named
Chatterton among the "inheritors of unfulfilled renown."
Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote a "Monody on the Death of
Chatterton" and six years later was still working on it, adding 36 more lines
and calling Chatterton a "heaven-born genius" and a "sweet harper."
William
Wordsworth called Chatterton "the marvelous boy" in his poem "Resolution and
Independence."
Lord Byron compared Chatterton favorably to Burns and Wordsworth for purity and
avoiding vulgar displays of elegance.
Dr. Samuel Johnson told his biographer Boswell: "This is the most
extraordinary young man that has encountered my knowledge. It is wonderful how
the whelp has written such things."
Dante Gabriel Rossetti called Chatterton "the
true day-spring of Romantic poetry."
Robert Browning praised Chatterton's gift for imitation.
Robert Southey in his poem "A Vision of Judgement" named Chatterton "first
Keats called Chatterton "the most English of poets except Shakespeare." One very
interesting thing about Chatterton―and there are so many!―is the high percentage
of "native" English words that he uses (by which I mean words that predate
French and later additions to the language). Chatterton seems to have had a
natural affiliation for, and a strong inclination to use, the older words in the
English lexicon. Keats also called him the "purest writer in the English
language." When Chatterton wrote, he went back to Rossetti's "day-spring" of
Romantic poetry: the well that Chaucer first drew from.
Famous Juvenile Writers
Poets and other writers who were writing at an early age include:
Mattie Stepanek (he started writing poems at age 4 and published several
best-selling "Heartstrings" poetry books before dying at age 13; President Jimmy
Carter called him "the most extraordinary person whom I have ever known")
Marshall Ball (despite being unable to speak and barely able to move, he learned
to write by pointing at alphabet blocks and composed his first poem, "Altogether
Lovely," at age 5)
e. e. cummings (he wrote a poem to his father at age 6, and was writing poetry
regularly by age 8)
Marjory Fleming (she learned to read at age 3, preferring adult books, and died
at age 8; Robert Louis Stevenson called her "the noblest work of God)
Thomas Chatterton (considered "slow" and a "fool" at age 7, he became a
voracious reader and writer and some of his published poems and hymns were
written at age 10)
Percy Bysshe Shelley (he wrote the poem "Verses on a Cat" at age 10)
Helen Keller (despite being blind, deaf and unable to speak until age 6, by age
11 she had written a short story, "The Frost King," that was published)
Alexander Pope (he wrote the poem "Ode to Solitude" at age 12)
Anne Frank (she started her famous diary at age 13)
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (he started writing his monody to Chatterton at age 13)
William Cullen Bryant (his satirical poem "The Embargo" was published at age 13)
Stephen Crane (he wrote the short story "Uncle Jake and the Bell Handle" at age
14)
Arthur Rimbaud (published at age 15, he retired from writing at age 19 to become
a soldier and smuggler!)
S. E. Hinton (she wrote her first book at age 15 and published her best-selling
novel The Outsiders at 18)
Mary Shelley (the wife of Percy Bysshe Shelley, she began work on her famous
gothic horror novel Frankenstein at age 18)
Poets who may have been mad include: Blake, Byron, Chatterton, Clare, Coleridge,
Collins, Gay, Goldsmith, Shelley
The HyperTexts