The Poetical Works of Thomas Chatterton :: :: University of Virginia Library

Tis mystery all, in every sect
You find this palpable defect,
The axis of the dark machine
Is enigmatic and unseen.
Opinion is the only guide
By which our senses are supplied;
Mere grief's conjecture, fancy's whim,
Can make our reason side with him.

But this discourse perhaps will be
As little liked by you as me;
I'll change the subject for a better,
And leave the Doctor, and his letter.
A Priest, whose sanctimonious face
Became a sermon, or a grace,
Could take an orthodox repast,
And left the knighted loin the last;
To fasting very little bent,
He'd pray indeed till breath was spent.
Shrill was his treble as a cat,
His organs being choked with fat;
In college quite as graceful seen
As Camplin or the lazy Dean,
(Who sold the ancient cross to Hoare
For one church-dinner, nothing more;
The Dean who, sleeping on the book,
Dreams he is swearing at his cook;)
This animated hill of oil
Was to another dean the foil.
They seemed two beasts of different kind,
Contra in politics and mind;
The only sympathy they knew,
They both loved turtle a-la-stew.
The Dean was empty, thin and long,
As Fowler's back or head or song.
He met the Rector in the street,
Sinking a cánal with his feet.
“Sir,” quoth the Dean, with solemn nod,
“You are a minister of God;

And, as I apprehend, should be
About such holy works as me.
But, cry your mercy, at a feast
You only shew yourself a priest.
No sermon politic you preach,
No doctrine damnable you teach.
Did not we few maintain the fight,
Mystery might sink, and all be light.
From house to house your appetite
In daily sojourn paints ye right.
Nor lies, true-orthodox, you carry,
You hardly ever hang or marry.
Good Mr. Rector, let me tell ye
You've too much tallow in this belly.
Fast, and repent of every sin,
And grow like me, upright and thin;
Be active, and assist your mother,
And then I'll own ye for a brother.”

“Sir,” quoth the Rector in a huff,
“True, you're diminutive enough,
And let me tell ye, Mr. Dean,
You are as worthless too as lean;
This mountain, strutting to my face,
Is an undoubted sign of grace.
Grace, though you ne'er on turtle sup,
Will like a bladder blow you up,
A tun of claret swells your case
Less than a single ounce of grace.”

“You're wrong,” the bursting Dean replied,
“Your logic's on the rough-cast side,
The minor's right, the major falls,

Weak as his modern honour's walls.
A spreading trunk, with rotten skin,
Shews very little's kept within;
But when the casket's neat, not large,
We guess th'importance of the charge.”

“Sir,” quoth the Rector, “I've a story
Quite apropos to lay before ye.
A sage philosopher, to try
What pupil saw with reason's eye,
Prepared three boxes, gold, lead, stone,
And bid three youngsters claim each one.
The first, a Bristol merchant's heir,
Loved pelf above the charming fair;
So 'tis not difficult to say,
Which box the dolthead took away.
The next, as sensible as me,
Desired the pebbled one, d'ye see.
The other having scratch'd his head,
Considered, though the third was lead,
'Twas metal still surpassing stone,
So claimed the leaden box his own.
Now to unclose they all prepare,
And hope alternate laughs at fear.
The golden case does ashes hold,
The leaden shines with sparkling gold,
But in the outcast stone they see
A jewel,—such pray fancy me.”

“Sir,” quoth the Dean, “I truly say
You tell a tale a pretty way;

But the conclusion to allow—
'Fore-gad, I scarcely can tell how.
A jewel! Fancy must be strong
To think you keep your water long.
I preach, thank gracious heaven! as clear
As any pulpit-stander here,
But may the devil claw my face
If e'er I prayed for puffing grace,
To be a mountain, and to carry
Such a vile heap—I'd rather marry!
Each day to sweat three gallons full
And span a furlong on my skull.
Lost to the melting joys of love—
Not to be borne—like justice move.”

And here the Dean was running on,
Through half a couplet having gone:
Quoth Rector peevish, “I sha'nt stay
To throw my precious time away.
The generous Burgum having sent
A ticket as a compliment,
I think myself in duty bound
Six pounds of turtle to confound.”

“That man you mention,” answers Dean,
“Creates in priests of sense the spleen,
His soul's as open as his hand,
Virtue distrest may both command;
That ragged virtue is a w---e,
I always beat her from my door.
But Burgum gives, and giving shews
His honour leads him by the nose.
Ah! how unlike the church divine,

Whose feeble lights on mountains shine,
And being placed so near the sky,
Are lost to every human eye.
His luminaries shine around
Like stars in the Cimmerian ground.”

“Invidious slanderer!” quoth priest,
“O may I never scent a feast,
If thy curst conscience is as pure
As underlings in Whitefield's cure!
The church, as thy display has shewn,
Is turned a bawd to lustful town;
But what against the church you've said,
Shall soon fall heavy on your head.
Is Burgum's virtue then a fault?
Ven'son and heaven forbid the thought!
He gives, and never eyes return,
O may paste altars to him burn!
But whilst I talk with worthless you,
Perhaps the dinner waits—adieu.”

This said, the Rector trudged along,
As heavy as Fowlerian song.
The hollow Dean, with fairy feet,
Stept lightly through the dirty street.
At last, arrived at destined place,
The bulky Doctor squeaks the grace:
“Lord bless the many-flavour'd meat,
And grant us strength enough to eat!
May all and every mother's son
Be drunk before the dinner's done.
When we give thanks for dining well, oh!
May each grunt out in Ritornello.”

Amen! resounds to distant tide,
And weapons clang on every side,
The oily rivers burn around,
And gnashing teeth make doleful sound.
Now is the busy President
In his own fated element,
In every look and action great,
His presence doubly fills the plate.
Nobly invited to the feast,
They all contribute gold at least.
The Duke and President collected,
Alike beloved, alike respected.

[Say, Baker, if experience hoar]

Say, Baker, if experience hoar
Has yet unbolted wisdom's door,
What is this phantom of the mind,
This love, when sifted and refined?
When the poor lover, fancy-frighted,
Is with [his] shadowy joys delighted,
A frown shall throw him in despair;
A smile shall brighten up his air.
Jealous without a seeming cause,
From flatt'ring smiles he misery draws;
Again, without his reason's aid,
His bosom's still, the devil's laid.
If this is love, my callous heart
Has never felt the rankling dart.

Oft have I seen the wounded swain
Upon the rack of pleasing pain,
Full of his flame, upon his tongue
The quivering declaration hung,
When lost to courage, sense, and reason,
He talked of weather and the season.
Such tremors never cowered me,
I'm flattering, impudent, and free,
Unmoved by frowns and lowering eyes,
'Tis smiles I only ask and prize;
And when the smile is freely given,
You're in the highway-road to heaven.
These coward lovers seldom find
That whining makes the ladies kind.
They laugh at silly silent swains
Who're fit for nothing but their chains.
'Tis an effrontery and tongue
On very oily hinges hung
Must win the blooming, melting fair,
And shew the joys of heaven here.

A rake, I take it, is a creature
Who winds through all the folds of nature;
Who sees the passions, and can tell
How the soft beating heart shall swell;
Who, when he ravishes the joy,
Defies the torments of the boy.
Who with the soul the body gains,
And shares love's pleasures, not his pains.
Who holds his charmer's reputation
Above a tavern veneration;
And when a love-repast he makes,
Not even prying fame partakes.
Who looks above a prostitute, he

Thinks love the only price of beauty,
And she that can be basely sold
Is much beneath or love or gold.
Who thinks the almost dearest part
In all the body is the heart:
Without it, rapture cannot rise,
Nor pleasures wanton in the eyes;
The sacred joy of love is dead,
Witness the sleeping marriage bed.
This is the picture of a rake,
Shew it the ladies—won't it take?

A buck's a beast of th'other side,
And rëal but in hoofs and hide:
To nature and the passions dead,
A brothel is his house and bed;
To fan the flame of warm desire,
And after wanton in the fire,
He thinks a labour; and his parts
Were not designed to conquer hearts.
The girls of virtue when he views,
Dead to all converse but the stews,
Silent as death, he's nought to say,
But sheepish steals himself away.
This is a buck to life display'd,
A character to charm each maid.
Now, prithee, friend, a choice to make,
Wouldst choose the buck before the rake?
The buck, as brutal as the name,
Invenoms every charmer's fame,
And though he never touched her hand,
Protests he had her at command.

The rake, in gratitude for pleasure,
Keeps reputation dear as treasure. [OMITTED]

But Hudibrastics may be found
To tire ye with repeated sound;
So, changing for a Shandeyan style,
I ask your favour and your smile.

ODE.

[In his wooden palace jumping]

Recitative.

In his wooden palace jumping,
Tearing, sweating, bawling, thumping,
“Repent, repent, repent,”
The mighty Whitefield cries,
Oblique light'ning in his eyes,
“Or die and be damn'd!” all around
The long-eared rabble grunt in dismal sound,
“Repent, repent, repent,”
Each concave mouth replies.
The comet of gospel, the lanthorn of light,
Is rising and shining
Like candles at night.
He shakes his ears,
He jumps, he stares;
Hark, he's whining!
The short-hand saints prepare to write,
And high they mount their ears.

Air.

“Now the devil take ye all,
Saints or no saints, all in a lump;

Here must I labour and bawl,
And thump, and thump, and thump;
And never a souse to be got.
Unless—I swear by jingo,
A greater profit's made,
I'll forswear my trade,
My gown and market-lingo,
And leave ye all to pot.”

Recitative.

Now he raves like brindled cat,
Now 'tis thunder,
Rowling,
Growling,
Rumbling,
Grumbling,
Noise and nonsense, jest and blunder.
Now he chats of this and that,
No more the soul-jobber,
No more the sly robber,
He's now an old woman who talks to her cat.
Again he starts, he beats his breast,
He rolls his eyes, erects his crest;
Hark! hark! the sound begins,
'Tis a bargain and sale for remission of sins.

Air.

“Say, beloved congregation,
In the hour of tribulation,
Did the power of man affray me?

Say, ye wives, and say, ye daughters,
Ha'n't I staunched your running waters?
I have laboured—pay me—pay me!

I have given absolution,
Don't withhold your contribution;
Men and angels should obey me—
Give but freely, you've remission
For all sins without condition;
You're my debtors, pay me, pay me!”

Recitative.

Again he's lost, again he chatters
Of lace and bobbin and such matters.
A thickening vapour swells—
Of Adam's fall he tells;
Dark as twice ten thousand hells
Is the gibberish which he spatters.
Now a most dismal elegy he sings,
Groans, doleful groans are heard about;
The Issacharian rout
Swell the sharp howl, and loud the sorrow rings.

He sung a modern buck, whose end
Was blinded prejudice and zeal;
In life, to every vice a friend,
Unfixed as fortune on her wheel.
He lived a buck, he died a fool,
So let him to oblivion fall,
Who thought a wretched body all,
Untaught in nature's or the passion's school.
Now he takes another theme,
Thus he tells his waking dream.

Air.

“After fasting and praying and grunting and weeping,
My guardian angel beheld me fast sleeping;
And instantly capering into my brain,
Relieved me from prison of bodily chain.
The soul can be every thing as you all know,
And mine was transformed to the shape of a crow.”
(The preacher or metre has surely mistook,
For all must confess that a parson's a rook.)

“Having wings, as I think I informed ye before,
I shot through a cavern and knocked at hell's door.
Out comes Mr. Porter Devil,
And, I'll assure ye, very civil.
“Dear sir,” quoth he, “pray step within,
The company is drinking tea;
We have a stranger just come in,
A brother from the triple tree.”

Well, in I walked, and what d'ye think?
Instead of sulphur, fire, and stink,
'Twas like a masquerade,
All grandeur, all parade.
Here stood an amphitheatre,
There stood the small Haymarket-house,
With devil-actors very clever,
Who without blacking did Othello.
And truly, a huge horned fellow
Told me, he hoped I would endeavour
To learn a part, and get a souse;
For pleasure was the business there.

A lawyer asked me for a fee,
To plead my right to drinking tea:
I begged his pardon; to my thinking,
I'd rather have a cheering cup,
For tea was but insipid drinking,
And brandy raised the spirits up.
So having seen each place in hell,
I straight awoke, and found all well.”

Recitative.

Now again his cornet's sounding,
Sense and harmony confounding,
Reason tortured, scripture twisted,
Into every form of fancy;
Forms which never yet existed,
And but his óblique optics cán see.
He swears,
He tears,
With sputtered nonsense now he breaks the ears;
At last the sermon and the paper ends;
He whines, and hopes his well-beloved friends
Will contribute their sons
To pay the arrears for building a house;
With spiritual doctors, and doctors for poxes,
Who all must be satisfied out of the boxes.
Hark! hark!—his cry resounds,
“Fire and thunder, blood and wounds,
Contribute, contribute,
And pay me my tribute,
Or the devil, I swear,
hall hunt ye as sportsmen would hunt a poor hare.
Whoever gives, unto the Lord he lends.”
The saint is melted, pays his fee, and wends;
And here the tedious length'ning Journal ends.

Ended Sat. evening, 30th Sept. 1769.