The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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A MONODY ON CHATTERTON. |
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 | The Harp of Erin |  |
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A MONODY ON CHATTERTON.
Daughters of Heav'n! blest sisters of
sweet Song,
Who nurse the seedlings that prolific rise
From Poesy's illustrious birth,
Firing some favour'd son of Earth,
And lending to his breast a portion of the skies;
O! hither move along
In pensive pace,
And with majestic grace
Lead bright Imagination's seraph-throng,
O'er the rude stones, that frown uncouth—
In yon deep dell's oblivious gloom,
Sadly sleeps a once-lov'd youth:
Ye wood-flow'rs breathe your wild perfume;
Ye shrouded warblers harmonize the gale;
Here, Autumn, fling thy brilliant bloom,
And fence from wayward winds the sacred vale:
Tread soft,—ye infants of the air,
While in the mazy dance you turn;
Tread soft, and pause to mourn,
Mingling your mystic sports with sickly care,
For Genius slumbers here!
True Genius, prompt to mount the sphere
Of Fancy, thrid pure rapture's maze,
And view her with unshrinking gaze;
Prompt to veil in antique dress
What antientry could ne'er express;
Catch the buskin's lofty mien,
Or woo the laughter-loving queen.
Who nurse the seedlings that prolific rise
From Poesy's illustrious birth,
Firing some favour'd son of Earth,
And lending to his breast a portion of the skies;
O! hither move along
In pensive pace,
And with majestic grace
Lead bright Imagination's seraph-throng,
O'er the rude stones, that frown uncouth—
In yon deep dell's oblivious gloom,
Sadly sleeps a once-lov'd youth:
Ye wood-flow'rs breathe your wild perfume;
Ye shrouded warblers harmonize the gale;
Here, Autumn, fling thy brilliant bloom,
And fence from wayward winds the sacred vale:
Tread soft,—ye infants of the air,
While in the mazy dance you turn;
Tread soft, and pause to mourn,
Mingling your mystic sports with sickly care,
130
True Genius, prompt to mount the sphere
Of Fancy, thrid pure rapture's maze,
And view her with unshrinking gaze;
Prompt to veil in antique dress
What antientry could ne'er express;
Catch the buskin's lofty mien,
Or woo the laughter-loving queen.
Immortal boy! thee angels fed
With Poesy's abstracted food;
Thy bowl was fill'd from Fancy's fountain-head,
Thy bowl with wond'rous ecstacies imbued:
By Heav'n's own chymic skill refin'd,
Thine was the manner of the mind.
With Poesy's abstracted food;
Thy bowl was fill'd from Fancy's fountain-head,
Thy bowl with wond'rous ecstacies imbued:
By Heav'n's own chymic skill refin'd,
Thine was the manner of the mind.
Yet Man, ingrate, thy labours view'd,
Unknown from Dullness' motley brood!
O next to Him, whose master-hand
Could thrill the pang'd nerve of the heart,
Bid the quick tear of pity start,
Or Terror shudd'ring own the dread command.
Hated reverse to all divine,
See the matchless minstrel pine,
See the blooming wonder die,
Indignant death in his distracted eye!
Unknown from Dullness' motley brood!
O next to Him, whose master-hand
Could thrill the pang'd nerve of the heart,
Bid the quick tear of pity start,
Or Terror shudd'ring own the dread command.
Hated reverse to all divine,
See the matchless minstrel pine,
See the blooming wonder die,
Indignant death in his distracted eye!
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What curses future æras, yet unborn,
Shall lavish on the wretch's head,
Who saw the tears fond Nature's darling shed,
Yet in his bosom struck an aggravating thorn!
Barbarian Britain!—Could the choicest gem
Of Merit's radiant diadem,
Sink in thy gloom, and waste its glorious glow!
Averse to bid neglected Genius live,
Say, shalt thou share the fame a Chatterton can give?
Had he but gain'd his manhood's mighty prime,
Bright as the sun, and as the sun sublime;
His soaring soul had borne the awful wand
Of magic power, and o'er the fairy land
Of Fancy, shed a new poetic race,
Lending creation to his favour'd place.
But ah! the dying sounds decay,
Ah! they fade away,
Melting, melting, melting,
Melting from the ear of day:
Despair assumes the Muse's lyre,
Damps each softly-sinking fire,
Presses the fiery spirit down below,
And tells his stubborn soul the bitter tale of woe!
At last: superior to her chain,
He flies o'er Madness' wild domain;
Despis'd and dejected, he faints and he sighs!
Too rigorous Heaven!—how ghastly his eyes!
Thus I triumph o'er all!—lo! a Chatterton dies!
Shall lavish on the wretch's head,
Who saw the tears fond Nature's darling shed,
Yet in his bosom struck an aggravating thorn!
Barbarian Britain!—Could the choicest gem
Of Merit's radiant diadem,
Sink in thy gloom, and waste its glorious glow!
Averse to bid neglected Genius live,
Say, shalt thou share the fame a Chatterton can give?
Had he but gain'd his manhood's mighty prime,
Bright as the sun, and as the sun sublime;
His soaring soul had borne the awful wand
Of magic power, and o'er the fairy land
Of Fancy, shed a new poetic race,
Lending creation to his favour'd place.
But ah! the dying sounds decay,
Ah! they fade away,
Melting, melting, melting,
Melting from the ear of day:
Despair assumes the Muse's lyre,
Damps each softly-sinking fire,
Presses the fiery spirit down below,
And tells his stubborn soul the bitter tale of woe!
At last: superior to her chain,
He flies o'er Madness' wild domain;
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Too rigorous Heaven!—how ghastly his eyes!
Thus I triumph o'er all!—lo! a Chatterton dies!
Spare, oh! spare, Almighty Pow'r!
His frenzy'd passion, and his last black hour;
Spare his mortal portion! spare;
Think upon his case distrest,
And of his soul's fine essence grant a share
To some pure breast!
Long did he brave Unkindness' gorgon eye;
Fell Famine's meagre lip, and Scorn's polluted breath!
He look'd to find a friend, he found no friend but Death!
He never look'd on high,
Or Thou hadst been his friend;
Despair had turn'd his sight below,
Despair had fix'd his home of woe,
Rashly rebellious fell the fatal blow!
God of Mercy! spare his end!
His frenzy'd passion, and his last black hour;
Spare his mortal portion! spare;
Think upon his case distrest,
And of his soul's fine essence grant a share
To some pure breast!
Long did he brave Unkindness' gorgon eye;
Fell Famine's meagre lip, and Scorn's polluted breath!
He look'd to find a friend, he found no friend but Death!
He never look'd on high,
Or Thou hadst been his friend;
Despair had turn'd his sight below,
Despair had fix'd his home of woe,
Rashly rebellious fell the fatal blow!
God of Mercy! spare his end!
Perchance (to mortal audience still unknown)
In agony's keen, parting groan,
No brother near to wrest his hand,
No sire to catch his last command,
No mother's mournful care to dress his bier,
No sister's tender, tender tear:
In Hope's ethereal light he saw Thee shine,
And father, mother, brother, sister, all combine—
In the full pity of thy op'ning heav'n,
His foibles and his faults forgiv'n!
Sweetest child of Poesy,
May this meet thy soul on high,
Cheer thy memory of this world,
And shew thy flag of future fame unfurl'd.
In agony's keen, parting groan,
No brother near to wrest his hand,
No sire to catch his last command,
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No sister's tender, tender tear:
In Hope's ethereal light he saw Thee shine,
And father, mother, brother, sister, all combine—
In the full pity of thy op'ning heav'n,
His foibles and his faults forgiv'n!
Sweetest child of Poesy,
May this meet thy soul on high,
Cheer thy memory of this world,
And shew thy flag of future fame unfurl'd.
| The Harp of Erin | |