The Solitary, and other poems With The Cavalier, a play. By Charles Whitehead |
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THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON. |
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 | The Solitary, and other poems |  |
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THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON.
A gloom hangs over London and portends
Tempest:—the thunderous clouds are pale as lead,
And from the chimneys the white smoke ascends,
Straight as a spirit from the newly dead;
And pigeons, for a moment duskly shown,
Revolve one lower circle and are flown.
Tempest:—the thunderous clouds are pale as lead,
And from the chimneys the white smoke ascends,
Straight as a spirit from the newly dead;
And pigeons, for a moment duskly shown,
Revolve one lower circle and are flown.
The ghastly welkin heaves with fitful glare,
Till antic lightnings rend the clouds in twain,
And run at large through the constricted air.
Hark! 'tis a summons to the headlong rain,
Which in small watery columns spins around,
In vaporous smoke along the hissing ground.
That room should be deserted—no—alone,
A youth through the dim twilight I behold;
As mute and motionless and pale as stone,
As like to death as life—as still and cold.
Hands clench'd, eyes clos'd, he sits, but not in sleep;
Hands never wont to pray, or eyes to weep.
Till antic lightnings rend the clouds in twain,
And run at large through the constricted air.
Hark! 'tis a summons to the headlong rain,
Which in small watery columns spins around,
In vaporous smoke along the hissing ground.
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A youth through the dim twilight I behold;
As mute and motionless and pale as stone,
As like to death as life—as still and cold.
Hands clench'd, eyes clos'd, he sits, but not in sleep;
Hands never wont to pray, or eyes to weep.
And yet, though grief with her gaunt fingers' touch,
Has wasted those wan features, marking there
Untimely furrows, still do they avouch
Something of that they have been used to wear.
Pride lingers on the lip, and even now
Scorn paramount sits on the squalid brow.
Has wasted those wan features, marking there
Untimely furrows, still do they avouch
Something of that they have been used to wear.
Pride lingers on the lip, and even now
Scorn paramount sits on the squalid brow.
He stirs and gazes round—his lips unclose:—
“Full sixty hours, and yet he does not come;
Give me the covert malice of my foes,
Not smiling friends who drive the dagger home,
Who count the throbbing pulse as it recedes,
And probe the wound, and wonder that it bleeds.
Why live? what answer will my heart supply?
Yes—suited for the cattle is the road,
The burden for the beast; but what am I,
That I should feel the spur or bear the goad,
And grovel through the desultory day
Till sleep or death—'tis fate, and I obey.”
“Full sixty hours, and yet he does not come;
Give me the covert malice of my foes,
Not smiling friends who drive the dagger home,
Who count the throbbing pulse as it recedes,
And probe the wound, and wonder that it bleeds.
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Yes—suited for the cattle is the road,
The burden for the beast; but what am I,
That I should feel the spur or bear the goad,
And grovel through the desultory day
Till sleep or death—'tis fate, and I obey.”
Then thoughts of those arose upon his mind,
Whose fortunes fame shall evermore repeat,
Of Milton, old, neglected, scorn'd, and blind;
Of Otway famish'd in the casual street;
Of Lee in madness plotting some vast scene
Of Babylon and the Assyrian Queen.
Whose fortunes fame shall evermore repeat,
Of Milton, old, neglected, scorn'd, and blind;
Of Otway famish'd in the casual street;
Of Lee in madness plotting some vast scene
Of Babylon and the Assyrian Queen.
And then of those who not in vain have sung
He meditates—who late the ascent have won,
Yet all too soon for envy's venom'd tongue,
Which hates the light she cannot gaze upon;
But sees the ground before her darken'd quite
By her own shadow, hateful as the light.
He meditates—who late the ascent have won,
Yet all too soon for envy's venom'd tongue,
Which hates the light she cannot gaze upon;
But sees the ground before her darken'd quite
By her own shadow, hateful as the light.
148
Weak thoughts—vain fears! When heaven shall grant a boon
To owls, and quenches day, they may possess
Safely the air; when wolves can bay the moon
Out of her orb, envy may hope no less.
Take heart, dear boy, and strive: a knock—no more—
A woman enters at the opening door.
To owls, and quenches day, they may possess
Safely the air; when wolves can bay the moon
Out of her orb, envy may hope no less.
Take heart, dear boy, and strive: a knock—no more—
A woman enters at the opening door.
“I come—” her voice is diffident and low—
“To offer what our slender means afford;
Three days you have not tasted aught, we know,
And hunger pierces sharper than a sword.
Ah, well a day!” her simple speech she ends
Gladly, and to the youth the food extends.
“To offer what our slender means afford;
Three days you have not tasted aught, we know,
And hunger pierces sharper than a sword.
Ah, well a day!” her simple speech she ends
Gladly, and to the youth the food extends.
He cannot speak. He strives, but cannot speak;
A hollow sound forth from his throat proceeds;
He waves her thence—a flush is on his cheek—
Her heart recoils and trembles while it bleeds;
And murmuring words, half wonder and half prayer,
Angry and grieved she seeks the narrow stair.
The woman's kindness smites him to the ground;
A groan of anguish rushes from his breast;—
One human creature in the world is found,
At last to pity—pity! death were best.
But gentler feelings to his bosom creep,
And will not thence awhile—oh, could he weep!
A hollow sound forth from his throat proceeds;
He waves her thence—a flush is on his cheek—
Her heart recoils and trembles while it bleeds;
And murmuring words, half wonder and half prayer,
Angry and grieved she seeks the narrow stair.
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A groan of anguish rushes from his breast;—
One human creature in the world is found,
At last to pity—pity! death were best.
But gentler feelings to his bosom creep,
And will not thence awhile—oh, could he weep!
Unbidden, softly pleading thoughts of home,
Breathe through his stubborn heart their sacred power,
And all he loves and all who love him come,
And kneel beside him in that fearful hour;
The organ yearns from Redcliffe's ancient pile,
And youthful voices thrill along the aisle.
Breathe through his stubborn heart their sacred power,
And all he loves and all who love him come,
And kneel beside him in that fearful hour;
The organ yearns from Redcliffe's ancient pile,
And youthful voices thrill along the aisle.
They cry unto his soul—but oh, in vain.
Preserve him, Heaven! and holier thoughts inspire!
Base Walpole's insult flashes through his brain—
Safe insult borrow'd from a worthless sire.
Not slighted love, or thwarted hate defied,
Works on the heart, soul, brain, like outrag'd pride.
With sudden start he rises to his knees,
But not to pray. The phial in his grasp
He raises, drinking, to the sluggish lees,
A poison fatal as the cureless asp:—
“Oh death, receive me of thy ghastly band!”
'Tis done! He flings the phial from his hand.
Preserve him, Heaven! and holier thoughts inspire!
Base Walpole's insult flashes through his brain—
Safe insult borrow'd from a worthless sire.
Not slighted love, or thwarted hate defied,
Works on the heart, soul, brain, like outrag'd pride.
150
But not to pray. The phial in his grasp
He raises, drinking, to the sluggish lees,
A poison fatal as the cureless asp:—
“Oh death, receive me of thy ghastly band!”
'Tis done! He flings the phial from his hand.
The woman hears it strike upon the floor,
And listens for a moment where she sits;
Then opens cunningly her creaking door—
“'Twas nothing, sure; God bless these crazy wits!”
And yet the doubt is present, and is gone:—
“Well, well! the wilful boy will be alone.”
And listens for a moment where she sits;
Then opens cunningly her creaking door—
“'Twas nothing, sure; God bless these crazy wits!”
And yet the doubt is present, and is gone:—
“Well, well! the wilful boy will be alone.”
Yet blame her not—poor common soul untaught:
She heeds not that which we so falsely deem
Our noble pride, and never questions aught,
Still judging all things simply as they seem;
Knows sorrow by the water in the eyes,
Joy by its smiles, and anguish by its cries.
The night is past; a lovely morn resumes
The heavens, and the glad compensating sun
With purer light each glittering spire illumes,
And Thames's ripples kindle as they run.
And noon is gone, and now a sickening dread
Falls on the woman's heart—the boy is dead.
She heeds not that which we so falsely deem
Our noble pride, and never questions aught,
Still judging all things simply as they seem;
Knows sorrow by the water in the eyes,
Joy by its smiles, and anguish by its cries.
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The heavens, and the glad compensating sun
With purer light each glittering spire illumes,
And Thames's ripples kindle as they run.
And noon is gone, and now a sickening dread
Falls on the woman's heart—the boy is dead.
Awe-stricken, trembling to the chamber climbs
The aged woman, breathless as she goes:
She shrieks, but cannot flee—constrain'd betimes
By that pale visage—can it be repose?
That face which, in proud courtesy declin'd,
Had often left its shadow on her mind.
The aged woman, breathless as she goes:
She shrieks, but cannot flee—constrain'd betimes
By that pale visage—can it be repose?
That face which, in proud courtesy declin'd,
Had often left its shadow on her mind.
For she had borne a son—but he was gone,
So many—scarce she knew how many—years,
And now in death, they look, forsooth, as one;—
How like the dead unto the dead appears!
On her unused knees she falls, and prays
A prayer remember'd of forgotten days.
No more!—with paupers was the poet laid—
Nor moral warmth nor vain regrets be mine—
Who can the tresses of the meteor braid
And hang it in the heaven for a sign?
Or bid the torrent, as it dashes by,
Reflect the glory of the steadfast sky?
So many—scarce she knew how many—years,
And now in death, they look, forsooth, as one;—
How like the dead unto the dead appears!
On her unused knees she falls, and prays
A prayer remember'd of forgotten days.
152
Nor moral warmth nor vain regrets be mine—
Who can the tresses of the meteor braid
And hang it in the heaven for a sign?
Or bid the torrent, as it dashes by,
Reflect the glory of the steadfast sky?
Blest boy, whose doom, when I was young as thou,
Drew my rash love towards thee, and controll'd
My better reason; why is it that now
Thou risest like a vision, as of old;
And bringest with thee one of dearer name,
More hapless—dying ere he spoke to fame?
Drew my rash love towards thee, and controll'd
My better reason; why is it that now
Thou risest like a vision, as of old;
And bringest with thee one of dearer name,
More hapless—dying ere he spoke to fame?
Ye come together—yet ye stand apart;
And like as brothers, twins of heaven ye seem,
And mingled love and sorrow fill my heart;—
Ye vanish—for ye met but in a dream.
I wake!—alike except in death, farewell!
One in my mind—one in my heart—to dwell.
And like as brothers, twins of heaven ye seem,
And mingled love and sorrow fill my heart;—
Ye vanish—for ye met but in a dream.
I wake!—alike except in death, farewell!
One in my mind—one in my heart—to dwell.
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