same age.' The remains of the unhappy youth were interred in a shell in the burying-ground of ShoeLane workhouse. His unfinished papers he had destroyed before his death, and his room, when broken open, was found covered with scraps of paper. The citizens of Bristol have erected a monument to the memory of their native poet.

The poems of Chatterton, published under the name of Rowley, consist of the tragedy of Ella, the Execution of Sir Charles Bawdin, Ode to Ella, the Battle of Hastings, the Tournament, one or two Dialogues, and a description of Canynge's Feast. Some of them, as the Ode to Ella (which we subjoin), have exactly the air of modern poetry, only disguised with antique spelling and phraseology. The avowed compositions of Chatterton are equally inferior to the forgeries in poetical powers and diction; which is satisfactorily accounted for by Sir Walter Scott by the fact, that his whole powers and energies must, at his early age, have been converted to the acquisition of the obsolete language and peculiar style necessary to support the deep-laid deception. He could have had no time for the study of our modern poets, their rules of verse, or modes of expression; while his whole faculties were intensely employed in the Herculean task of creating the person, history, and language of an ancient poet, which, vast as these faculties were, were sufficient wholly to engross, though not to overburden them.' Å power of picturesque painting seems to be Chatterton's most distinguishing feature as a poet. The heroism of Sir Charles Bawdin, who

Summed the actions of the day
Each night before he slept,

and who bearded the tyrant king on his way to the scaffold, is perhaps his most striking portrait. The following description of Morning in the tragedy of Ella, is in the style of the old poets :

Bright sun had in his ruddy robes been dight,
From the red east he flitted with his train;
The Houris draw away the gate of Night,

Her sable tapestry was rent in twain:
The dancing streaks bedecked heaven's plain,
And on the dew did smile with skimmering eye,
Like gouts of blood which do black armour stain,
Shining upon the bourn which standeth by;
The soldiers stood upon the hillis side,
Like young enleaved trees which in a forest bide.
A description of Spring in the same poem-
The budding floweret blushes at the light,

The meads be sprinkled with the yellow hue,
In daisied mantles is the mountain dight,

The fresh young cowslip bendeth with the dew; The trees enleafed, into heaven straight,

When gentle winds do blow, to whistling din is brought.

The evening comes, and brings the dews along,

The ruddy welkin shineth to the eyne, Around the ale-stakel minstrels sing the song, Young ivy round the door-post doth entwine; I lay me on the grass, yet to my will

Albeit all is fair, there lacketh something still.
In the epistle to Canynge, Chatterton has a striking
censure of the religious interludes which formed
the early drama; but the idea, as Warton remarks,
is the result of that taste and discrimination which
could only belong to a more advanced period of so-
ciety-

Plays made from holy tales I hold unmeet;
Let some great story of a man be sung;
When as a man we God and Jesus treat,
In my poor mind we do the Godhead wrong.
1 The sign-post of an alehouse.

The satirical and town effusions of Chatterton are often in bad taste, yet display a wonderful command of easy language and lively sportive allusion. They have no traces of juvenility, unless it be in adopting the vulgar scandals of the day, unworthy his original genius. In his satire of Kew Gardens are the following lines, alluding to the poet laureate and the proverbial poverty of poets:—

Though sing-song Whitehead ushers in the year,
With joy to Britain's king and sovereign dear,
And, in compliance to an ancient mode,
Measures his syllables into an ode;
Yet such the scurvy merit of his muse,
He bows to deans, and licks his lordship's shoes;
Then leave the wicked barren way of rhyme,
Fly far from poverty, be wise in time:
Regard the office more, Parnassus less,
Put your religion in a decent dress:
Then may your interest in the town advance,
Above the reach of muses or romance.

In a poem entitled The Prophecy are some vigorous stanzas, in a different measure, and remarkable for maturity and freedom of style :

This truth of old was sorrow's friend-
'Times at the worst will surely mend.'
The difficulty's then to know
How long Oppression's clock can go;
When Britain's sons may cease to sigh,
And hope that their redemption's nigh.
When vile Corruption's brazen face
At council-board shall take her place;
And lords-commissioners resort
To welcome her at Britain's court;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
See Pension's harbour, large and clear,
Defended by St Stephen's pier!
The entrance safe, by current led,
Tiding round G-'s jetty head;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When civil power shall snore at ease;
While soldiers fire-to keep the peace;
When murders sanctuary find,
And petticoats can Justice blind;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
Commerce o'er Bondage will prevail,
Free as the wind that fills her sail.
When she complains of vile restraint,
And Power is deaf to her complaint;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When at Bute's feet poor Freedom lies,
Marked by the priest for sacrifice,
And doomed a victim for the sins
Of half the outs and all the ins;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When time shall bring your wish about,
Or, seven-years lease, you sold, is out;
No future contract to fulfil ;

Your tenants holding at your will;
Raise up your heads! your right demand-
For your redemption's in your hand.
Then is your time to strike the blow,
And let the slaves of Mammon know,
Britain's true sons a bribe can scorn,
And die as free as they were born.
Virtue again shall take her seat,
And your redemption stand complete.

The boy who could thus write at sixteen, might soon have proved a Swift or a Dryden. Yet in satire, Chatterton evinced but a small part of his power. His Rowleian poems have a compass of invention, and a luxuriance of fancy, that promised a great chivalrous or allegorical poet of the stamp of Spenser.

Bristow Tragedy, or the Death of Sir Charles Bawdin.*

The feathered songster chanticleer
Had wound his bugle-horn,

And told the early villager

The coming of the morn:

King Edward saw the ruddy streaks
Of light eclipse the gray,

And heard the raven's croaking throat,
Proclaim the fated day.

'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.'

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."
Sir Canterlone then bended low,
With heart brimful of wo;
He journied to the castle-gate,

And to Sir Charles did go.

But when he came, his children twain,
And eke his loving wife,

With briny tears did wet the floor,
For good Sir Charles's life.

'Oh good Sir Charles!' said Canterlone,
'Bad tidings I do bring.'

'Speak boldly, man,' said brave Sir Charles ;

What says the traitor king?'

'I grieve to tell: before yon sun
Does from the welkin fly,

He hath upon his honour sworn,
That thou shalt surely die.'

· We all must die,' said brave Sir Charles;

'Of that I'm not afraid;

What boots to live a little space?
Thank Jesus, I'm prepared.

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.'

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

Then Mr Canynge sought the king,

And fell down on his knee;

'I'm come,' quoth he, unto your grace,

To move your clemency.'

"Then,' quoth the king, 'your tale speak out, You have been much our friend;

Whatever your request may be,

We will to it attend.'

The antiquated orthography affected by Chatterton being evidently no advantage to his poems, but rather an impediment to their being generally read, we dismiss it in this and other specimens. The diction is, in reality, almost purely modern, and Chatterton's spelling in a great measure arbitrary, Bo that there seems no longer any reason for retaining what was only designed at first as a means of supporting a deception.

་

He has a spouse and children twain;
All ruined are for aye,

If that you are resolved to let
Charles Bawdin die to-day.'
'Speak not of such a traitor vile,'
The king in fury said;
'Before the evening star doth shine,
Bawdin shall lose his head :

Justice does loudly for him call,
And he shall have his meed:

Speak, Mr Canynge! what thing else
At present do you need?'

'My noble liege!' good Canynge said,
Leave justice to our God,

And lay the iron rule aside;

Be thine the olive rod.

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.

Let mercy rule thine infant reign,
"Twill fix thy crown full sure;
From race to race thy family

All sovereigns shall endure:

But if with blood and slaughter thou
Begin thy infant reign,

Thy crown upon thy children's brows
Will never long remain.'

'Canynge, away! this traitor vile

Has scorned my power and me;
How canst thou then for such a man
Intreat my clemency?'

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

'Canynge, away! By God in heaven
That did me being give,

I will not taste a bit of bread

Whilst this Sir Charles doth live!

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

With heart brimful of gnawing grief,

He to Sir Charles did go,

And sat him down upon a stool,

And tears began to flow.

'We all must die,' said brave Sir Charles;

"What boots it how or when?

Death is the sure, the certain fate,

Of all we mortal men.

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?

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

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

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.

Before I saw the lightsome sun,
This was appointed me;

Shall mortal man repine or grudge
What God ordains to be?

How oft in battle have I stood,

When thousands died around;
When smoking streams of crimson blood
Imbrued the fattened ground:
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?
And shall I now, for fear of death,
Look wan and be dismayed?
No! from my heart fly childish fear;
Be all the man displayed.

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.

My honest friend, my fault has been
To serve God and my prince;
And that I no time-server am,
My death will soon convince.
In London city was I born,
Of parents of great note;
My father did a noble arms
Emblazon on his coat:

I make no doubt but he is gone
Where soon I hope to go,
Where we for ever shall be blest,
From out the reach of wo.
He taught me justice and the laws
With pity to unite ;

And eke he taught me how to know
The wrong cause from the right:
He taught me with a prudent hand
To feed the hungry poor,
Nor let my servants drive away
The hungry from my door:
And none can say but all my life
I have his wordis kept;

And summed the actions of the day
Each night before I slept.

I have a spouse, go ask of her
If I defiled her bed?

I have a king, and none can lay
Black treason on my head.

In Lent, and on the holy eve,
From flesh I did refrain ;
Why should I then appear dismayed
To leave this world of pain!
No, hapless Henry! I rejoice
I shall not see thy death;
Most willingly in thy just cause
Do I resign my breath.
Oh, fickle people! ruined land!
Thou wilt ken peace no moe;
While Richard's sons exalt themselves,
Thy brooks with blood will flow.
Say, were ye tired of godly peace,
And godly Henry's reign,
That you did chop your easy days
For those of blood and pain?

1 Exchange.

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

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.

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

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.'
Saith Canynge, ''Tis a goodly thing
To be prepared to die;

And from this world of pain and grief
To God in Heaven to fly.'

And now the bell began to toll,

And clarions to sound;

Sir Charles he heard the horses' feet
A-prancing on the ground.

And just before the officers

His loving wife came in,
Weeping unfeigned tears of wo
With loud and dismal din.
'Sweet Florence! now I pray forbear,
In quiet let me die;

Pray God that every Christian soul
May look on death as I.

Sweet Florence! why these briny tears!
They wash my soul away,

And almost make me wish for life,
With thee, sweet dame, to stay.

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

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

Ah, sweet Sir Charles! why wilt thou go
Without thy loving wife?

The cruel axe that cuts thy neck,

It eke shall end my life.'

And now the officers came in

To bring Sir Charles away,
Who turned to his loving wife,
And thus to her did say:

'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.

Teach them to run the noble race

That I their father run,

Florence! should death thee take-adieu! Ye officers lead on.'

Then Florence raved as any mad,

And did her tresses tear;

'Oh stay, my husband, lord, and life!'Sir Charles then dropped a tear.

"Till tired out with raving loud,
She fell upon the floor;
Sir Charles exerted all his might,
And marched from out the door.
Upon a sledge he mounted then,

With looks full brave and sweet;
Looks that enshone no more concern
Than any in the street.

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

The friars of Saint Augustine next
Appeared to the sight,

All clad in homely russet weeds,
Of godly monkish plight:
In different parts a godly psalm
Most sweetly they did chant;
Behind their back six minstrels came,
Who tuned the strange bataunt.
Then five-and-twenty archers came;
Each one the bow did bend,
From rescue of King Henry's friends
Sir Charles for to defend.

Bold as a lion came Sir Charles,

Drawn on a cloth-laid sledde,

By two black steeds in trappings white,
With plumes upon their head.
Behind him five-and-twenty more
Of archers strong and stout,
With bended bow each one in hand,
Marched in goodly rout.

Saint James's friars marched next,
Each one his part did chant;
Behind their backs six minstrels came,
Who tuned the strange bataunt.
Then came the mayor and aldermen,
In cloth of scarlet decked;
And their attending men each one,
Like eastern princes tricked.
And after them a multitude

Of citizens did throng;
The windows were all full of heads,
As he did pass along.

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

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

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

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

Thou thinkest I shall die to-day;
I have been dead till now,

And soon shall live to wear a crown
For aye upon my brow;

Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years,

Shalt rule this fickle land,

To let them know how wide the rule
"Twixt king and tyrant hand.

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

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

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

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

And now the horses gently drew
Sir Charles up the high hill;
The axe did glister in the sun,

His precious blood to spill.
Sir Charles did up the scaffold go,
As up a gilded car
Of victory, by valorous chiefs
Gained in the bloody war.
And to the people he did say:
'Behold you see me die,
For serving loyally my king,

My king most rightfully.

As long as Edward rules this land,
No quiet you will know;
Your sons and husbands shall be slain,
And brooks with blood shall flow.

You leave your good and lawful king,
When in adversity;

Like me, unto the true cause stick,

And for the true cause die.'
Then he, with priests, upon his knees,
A prayer to God did make,
Beseeching him unto himself

His parting soul to take.

Then, kneeling down, he laid his head
Most seemly on the block;
Which from his body fair at once
The able headsman stroke:

And out the blood began to flow,
And round the scaffold twine;
And tears, enough to wash't away,
Did flow from each man's eyne.
The bloody axe his body fair
Into four partis cut;
And every part, and eke his head,
Upon a pole was put.

One part did rot on Kinwulph-hill,
One on the minster-tower,
And one from off the castle-gate

The crowen did devour.

The other on Saint Paul's good gate,
A dreary spectacle;

His head was placed on the high cross,
In high street most noble.

Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate:

God prosper long our king,

And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul,
In heaven God's mercy sing!

[The Minstrel's Song in Ella.]

O sing unto my roundelay;

O drop the briny tear with me;
Dance no more at holiday,'
Like a running river be;
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow tree.

Black his hair as the winter night,

White his neck as summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below: My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree.

Sweet his tongue as throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought was he;
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;

Oh! 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 briered 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 garish flowers be laid,
Nor one holy saint to save
All the sorrows of a maid.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree.

With my hands I'll bind the briers,
Round his holy corse to gre;1
Elfin-fairy, light your fires,
Here my body still shall be.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow tree.

Come with acorn cup and thorn,
Drain my heart's blood all 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. Water-witches, crowned with reytes,2 Bear me to your deadly tide. I die I come-my true-love waits. Thus the damsel spake, and died.

The mystic mazes of thy will,
The shadows of celestial light,
Are past the power of human skill-
But what the Eternal acts is right.
O teach me in the trying hour,
When anguish swells the dewy tear,
To still my sorrows, own thy power,
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 the inflicter of the blow;
Forbid the sigh, compose my mind,
Nor let the gush of misery flow.

The gloomy mantle of the night,
Which on my sinking spirits steals,
Will vanish at the morning light,

Which God, my East, my Sun, reveals.

WILLIAM FALCONER.

The terrors and circumstances of a Shipwreck had been often described by poets, ancient and modern, but never with any attempt at professional accuracy or minuteness of detail, before the poem of that name by Falconer. It was reserved for a genuine sailor to disclose, in correct and harmonious verse, the secrets of the deep,' and to enlist the sympathies of the general reader in favour of the daily life and occupations of his brother seamen, and in all the movements, the equipage, and tracery of those magnificent vessels which have carried the British name and enterprise to the remotest corners of the world. Poetical associations-a feeling of boundlessness and sublimity-obviously belonged to the scene of the poem-the ocean; but its interest soon wanders from this source, and centres in the stately ship and its crew the gallant resistance which the men made to the fury of the storm-their calm and deliberate courage the various resources of their skill and ingenuity-their consultations and resolutions as the ship labours in distress--and the brave unselfish piety and generosity with which they meet their fate, when at last

WILLIAM FALCONER was born in Edinburgh in 1730, and was the son of a poor barber, who had two other children, both of whom were deaf and dumb. He went early to sea, on board a Leith merchant ship, and was afterwards in the royal navy. Before he was eighteen years of age, he was second mate in the Britannia, a vessel in the Levant trade, which was shipwrecked off Cape Colonna, as described in his poem. In 1751 he was living in Edinburgh, where he published his first poetical attempt,