The Poetical Works of Thomas Chatterton with an essay on the Rowley poems by the Rev. Walter W. Skeat and a memoir by Edward Bell |
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23
TO MISS HOYLAND.
Go, gentle Muse, and to my fair one say,
My ardent passion mocks the feeble lay,
That love's pure flame my panting breast inspires,
And friendship warms me with her chaster fires.
Yes, more my fond esteem, my matchless love,
Than the soft turtle's, cooing in the grove;
More than the lark delights to mount the sky,
Then, sinking on the greensward, soft to lie;
More than the bird of eve, at close of day,
To pour in solemn solitude her lay;
More than grave Camplin with his deep-toned note,
To mouth the sacred service got by rote;
More than sage Catcott does his storm of rain,
Sprung from th'abyss of his eccentric brain,
Or than his wild-antique and sputtering brother
Loves in his ale-house chair to drink and pother;
More than soft Lewis, that sweet pretty thing,
Loves in the pulpit to display his ring;
More than frail mortals love a brother sinner,
And more than Bristol aldermen their dinner,
When full four pounds of the well-fatten'd haunch
In twenty mouthfuls fill the greedy paunch.
My ardent passion mocks the feeble lay,
That love's pure flame my panting breast inspires,
And friendship warms me with her chaster fires.
Yes, more my fond esteem, my matchless love,
Than the soft turtle's, cooing in the grove;
More than the lark delights to mount the sky,
Then, sinking on the greensward, soft to lie;
More than the bird of eve, at close of day,
To pour in solemn solitude her lay;
More than grave Camplin with his deep-toned note,
To mouth the sacred service got by rote;
More than sage Catcott does his storm of rain,
Sprung from th'abyss of his eccentric brain,
Or than his wild-antique and sputtering brother
Loves in his ale-house chair to drink and pother;
More than soft Lewis, that sweet pretty thing,
Loves in the pulpit to display his ring;
More than frail mortals love a brother sinner,
And more than Bristol aldermen their dinner,
24
In twenty mouthfuls fill the greedy paunch.
If these true strains can thy dear bosom move,
Let thy soft blushes speak a mutual love:
But if thy purpose settles in disdain,
Speak my dread fate, and bless thy favourite swain.
Let thy soft blushes speak a mutual love:
But if thy purpose settles in disdain,
Speak my dread fate, and bless thy favourite swain.
D. B.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Chatterton | |