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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 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Chatterton |  |
THE DEFENCE.
Dec. 25th, 1769.
No more, dear Smith, the hacknied tale renew;
I own their censure, I approve it too.
For how can idiots, destitute of thought,
Conceive or estimate, but as they're taught?
Say, can the satirizing pen of Shears
Exalt his name, or mutilate his ears?
None but a Lawrence can adorn his lays,
Who in a quart of claret drinks his praise.
Taylor repeats what Catcott told before,
But lying Taylor is believed no more.
If in myself I think my notion just,
The church and all her arguments are dust.
I own their censure, I approve it too.
For how can idiots, destitute of thought,
Conceive or estimate, but as they're taught?
Say, can the satirizing pen of Shears
Exalt his name, or mutilate his ears?
None but a Lawrence can adorn his lays,
Who in a quart of claret drinks his praise.
Taylor repeats what Catcott told before,
But lying Taylor is believed no more.
If in myself I think my notion just,
The church and all her arguments are dust.
80
Religion's but Opinion's bastard son,
A perfect mystery, more than three in one.
'Tis fancy all, distempers of the mind;
As education taught us, we're inclined.
Happy the man, whose reason bids him see
Mankind are by the state of nature free;
Who, thinking for himself, despises those
That would upon his better sense impose;
Is to himself the minister of God,
Nor treads the path where Athanasius trod.
Happy (if mortals can be) is the man,
Who, not by priest but Reason, rules his span:
Reason, to its possessor a sure guide,
Reason, a thorn in Revelation's side.
If Reason fails, incapable to tread
Through gloomy Revelation's thickening bed,
On what authority the Church we own?
How shall we worship deities unknown?
Can the Eternal Justice pleased receive
The prayers of those who, ignorant, believe?
Search the thick multitudes of every sect,
The Church supreme, with Whitfield's new elect;
No individual can their God define,
No, not great Penny, in his nervous line.
But why must Chatterton selected sit
The butt of every critic's little wit?
Am I alone for ever in a crime,
Nonsense in prose, or blasphemy in rhyme?
All monosyllables a line appears:
Is it not very often so in Shears?
See generous Eccas lengthening out my praise,
Enraptured with the music of my lays;
In all the arts of panegyric graced,
The cream of modern literary taste.
A perfect mystery, more than three in one.
'Tis fancy all, distempers of the mind;
As education taught us, we're inclined.
Happy the man, whose reason bids him see
Mankind are by the state of nature free;
Who, thinking for himself, despises those
That would upon his better sense impose;
Is to himself the minister of God,
Nor treads the path where Athanasius trod.
Happy (if mortals can be) is the man,
Who, not by priest but Reason, rules his span:
Reason, to its possessor a sure guide,
Reason, a thorn in Revelation's side.
If Reason fails, incapable to tread
Through gloomy Revelation's thickening bed,
On what authority the Church we own?
How shall we worship deities unknown?
Can the Eternal Justice pleased receive
The prayers of those who, ignorant, believe?
Search the thick multitudes of every sect,
The Church supreme, with Whitfield's new elect;
No individual can their God define,
No, not great Penny, in his nervous line.
But why must Chatterton selected sit
The butt of every critic's little wit?
Am I alone for ever in a crime,
Nonsense in prose, or blasphemy in rhyme?
All monosyllables a line appears:
Is it not very often so in Shears?
81
Enraptured with the music of my lays;
In all the arts of panegyric graced,
The cream of modern literary taste.
“Why, to be sure, the metaphoric line
Has something sentimental, tender, fine;
But then how hobbling are the other two—
There are some beauties, but they're very few.
Besides the author, 'faith 'tis something odd,
Commends a reverential awe of God.
Read but another fancy of his brain,
He's atheistical in every strain.”
Fallacious is the charge—'tis all a lie,
As to my reason I can testify,
I own a God, immortal, boundless, wise,
Who bid our glories of creation rise;
Who formed His varied likeness in mankind,
Centring His many wonders in the mind;
Who saw religion a fantastic night,
But gave us reason to obtain the light.
Indulgent Whitfield scruples not to say,
He only can direct to heaven's high-way;
While bishops with as much vehémence tell,
All sects heterodox are food for hell.
Why then, dear Smith, since doctors disagree,
Their notions are not oracles to me:
What I think right I ever will pursue,
And leave you liberty to do so too.
Has something sentimental, tender, fine;
But then how hobbling are the other two—
There are some beauties, but they're very few.
Besides the author, 'faith 'tis something odd,
Commends a reverential awe of God.
Read but another fancy of his brain,
He's atheistical in every strain.”
Fallacious is the charge—'tis all a lie,
As to my reason I can testify,
I own a God, immortal, boundless, wise,
Who bid our glories of creation rise;
Who formed His varied likeness in mankind,
Centring His many wonders in the mind;
Who saw religion a fantastic night,
But gave us reason to obtain the light.
Indulgent Whitfield scruples not to say,
He only can direct to heaven's high-way;
While bishops with as much vehémence tell,
All sects heterodox are food for hell.
Why then, dear Smith, since doctors disagree,
Their notions are not oracles to me:
What I think right I ever will pursue,
And leave you liberty to do so too.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Chatterton | |