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Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note,
Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee,
Defte f hys taboure, codgelle stote,
O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree :

Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Alle underre the wyllowe tree.

London was the field which he choose as the theatre of action. He had been invited there by several booksellers, whose earnest solicitations, and a con. sciousness of his own talent, bade him hope of success, and indulge in those fond dreams of realizing a fortune, which experience proves are too often fallacious and vain. For a considerable time he managed to support himself with his pen, by engaging warmly in the political disputes of the day. Indeed, the activity of his mind, at this period, was almost unparaileled. But these literary speculations, when unbacked by interest, and unpatronized by power, seldom succeed, and are at all times a precarious mode of earning a livelihood. It was even so with him. Before he left Bristol he had written the Hon. Horace Walpole, enclosing some of his pieces, and requesting that gentleman would use his influence to procure him some situation fitted for his talents. From him, however, he received a cold and mortifying repulse, which the proud soul of Chatterton could neither brook nor forget. Accordingly, we find Mr. Walpole placed in a very ridiculous light in one of his humorous pieces, styled “ The Memoirs of a Sad Dog," under the name of the “redoubted baron Otranto, who spent his whole life in conjectures."

To record the minute events of his life, our limits forbid : suffice it to say, that, disappointed in all the gay visions of happiness and fame, he gradually sunk into a gloomy despondence, and at last, driven to desperation by absolute want, he on the 24th August 1770, swallowed poison, of which he died next day. All his unfinished productions he had cautiously destroyed before his death, and his room when hroken into was found covered with scraps of paper. This melancholy catastrophe happened in his eighteenth year, and little more than four months after the commencement of what he, thoughtlessly and mistakenly, had imagined would prove an uninterrupted source of felicity.

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II arke! the ravenne flappes lys wynge,
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,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

· The person of Chatterton," says bis Biographer, “like his genius, was premature ; he had a manliness and dignity beyond his years; there was something about him remarkably prepossessing. His most remarkable feature was his eyes, which, though grey, were uncommoniy piercing; when he was warmed in argument or otherwise, they spark ed with fire, and one eve it is said was still more remarkable than the other."

With regard to the poems ascribed to Rowley, many learned treatises have been written by the first critics and antiquaries of the country. Opinion is much divided on the subject of their genuineness. However, after carefully perusing and comparing them with the poetry of the age in which they are alledged to have been written, we think there can be little doubt but that they are all the fabrications of Chatterton himself. If so, he certainly was one of the most extraordinary literary prodigies that this or any other country has produced. Knowledge seems to have been acquired by him intuitively; for these poems evince an intimate acquaintance with the antiquities, language, and customs of the age, to which he uniformly and pertiriaciously alleged they belonged. In them his powers of imagination and poetical skill, appear most eminently conspicuous. All his avowed pieces are vastly inferior (if we except some of his satires, which are peculiarly caustic, with his two African Eclogues) and indeed unworthy the great mind that produced Ella, Goddwyn, the Battle of Hastings, &c.

Concerning Chatterton and the Rowleian controversy, one way and another there has been no less than twenty volumes of pamphlets, or tracts already published. It is to be regretted that so much were written, and so little done for that unfortunate youth.That so many were free with their pens, and so few munificent with their purses-But the annals of Literature exhibit many a counterpart to the present melancholy instance; and the fate of Butler, Otway, and Chatterton, will long remain indelible stains on the country which gave them birth.

See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude ;
Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie;
Whyterre yanne


cloude ;
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Heere, uponne mie true loves grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nee one hallie Seyncte to save
Al the celness of a mayde.

Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Alle under the wyllowe tree.

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


Gon to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne,
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;
Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne,
Daunce bie nete il, or feaste by daie.

* Hallie, holy. { Gre, grow.

+ Celness, coldness,

Ouphante, elfin,

Dente, fasten.
Nete, night.

Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death. bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes",
Bere mee to yer leathalle † tyde.
I die; I comme; mie true love waytes
Thos the damselle spake and dyed.




Spirits of love, who wander on

The rosy cheek, and the ruby lip,
And in the folds of the silken zone:

Over the lovely bosom trip,
O let the cheek of the maid I love

Be, at morn and even', your rosy bed,
And sweetly smile, as the spirits above,

Spirits by whom the heart is led.

* Reylcs. waterfaz .

+ Leathalle, deadly.

Spirits of love, whose radiant sphere

Is the liquid blue of the cherub's eye,
Who bask in realms more bright and clear,

And lovelier than the rainbow's dye.
o let the eye of the maid I love

Be, at morn and even', your resting place, .
And sweetly smile, as the spirits above,

Spirits of light, of life, and grace.

Spirits of love, whose smiles divine,

And witcherie, fond hearts ensnare,
Hearts pure as the twin-rose buds, that twine,

When fann’d by the breath of morning air.
O let the heart of the maid I love,

Be at morn and even' by smiles carest,
Smiles sweet as those of the spirits above,

Spirits by whom the heart is blest.



Oh ! holy be the sod
Which her light foot trod,

* This poetical piece, we can with confidence state, is the composition of a young gentleman, well known in this place, and who has already sent

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