Then your religion, ah! beware, beware, Altho' a deist is no monster here,

Yet hide your tenets, priests are powerful foes,
And priesthood fetters justice by the nose.
Think not the merit of a jingling song
Can countenance the author's acting wrong;
Reform your manners, and with solemn air
Hear Ct bray and Rs squeak in pray'r.
Honour the scarlet robe, and let the quill
Be silent when his worship eats his fill.
Regard thy int'rest, ever love thyself;
Rise into notice, as you rise in pelf;
The Muses have no credit here, and fame
Confines itself to the mercantile name;
Then clip imagination's wing, be wise,
And great in wealth, (to real greatness rise;)
Or, if you must persist to sing and dream,
Let only panegyric be your theme:
Make North a Chatham, canonize his grace,
Aud get a pension, or procure a place."

Damn'd narrow notions! tending to disgrace
The boasted reason of the human race.
Bristol may keep her prudent maxims still,
But know, my saving friends, I never will.
The composition of my soul is made
Too great for servile, avaricious trade:
When raving in the lunacy of ink
1 catch the pen, and publish what I think.
North is a creature, and the king's misled;
Mansfield and Norton came as justice fled:
Few of our ministers are over wise:
Old Harpagon's a cheat, and Taylor lies.
When cooler judgment actuates my brain,
My cooler judgment still approves the strain;
And if a borrid picture greets your view,
There it continues still, if copied true.
Tho' in the double infamy of lawn
The future bishopric of Barton's drawn.
Protect me, fair ones, if I durst engage
To serve ye in this catamitish age,
To exercise a passion banish'd hence,
And summon satire in to your defence.
Woman, of ev'ry happiness the best,
Is all my Heaven; religion is a jest,
Nor shall the Muse in any future book
With awe upon the chains of favour look:
North shall in all his vices be display'd,
And Warburton in lively pride array'd;
Sandwich shall undergo the healing lash,
And read his character without a dash:
Mansfield, surrounded by his dogs of law,
Shall see his picture drawn in ev'ry flaw:
Luttrell, (if satire can descend so low)
Shall all his native little vices show:
And Grafton, tho' prudentially resign'd,
Shall view a striking copy of his mind.
Whilst iron Justice, lifting up her scales,
Shall weigh the princess dowager of Wales.
Finis. Book the first.


ON THE DEATH OF MR. JOHN TANDEY, SENR. A sincere Christian friend. He died 5th January, 1769, aged 76.

[From the original, copied by Mr. Catcott.]
YE virgins of the sacred choir
Awake the soul-dissolving lyre,

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[From the original, copied by Mr. Catcott.] MARRIAGE, dear M, is a serious thing; 'Tis proper every man should think it so: "Twill either ev'ry human blessing bring, Or load thee with a settlement of woe. Sometimes indeed it is a middle state, Neither supremely blest nor deeply curst; A stagnant pool of life; a dream of fate: In my opinion, of all states the worst. Observe the partner of thy future state: If no strong vice is stamp'd upon her mind, Take her; and let her ease thy am'rous pain: A little errour, proves her human-kind. What we call vices are not always such; Some virtues scarce deserve the sacred name: Thy wife may love, as well as pray too much, And to another stretch her rising flame.

The above-mentioned gentleman was a man of unblemished character; and father-in-law to Mr. William Barrett, author of the History of Bristol; and lies interred in Redcliff church, in the same vault with Mr. Barrett's wife.-The Elegy would have been inserted in one of the Bristol journals, but was suppressed at the particular request of Mr. Tandy's eldest son,

Choose no religionist; whose every day
Is lost to thee and thine, to none a friend:
Know too, when pleasure calls the heart astray,
The warmest zealot is the blackest fiend.

Let not the fortune first engross thy care,
Let it a second estimation hold:

A Smithfield marriage is of pleasures bare,
And love, without the purse, will soon grow cold.

Marry no letter'd damsel, whose wise head
May prove it just to graft the horns on thine:
Marry no idiot, keep her from thy bed;
What the brains want, will often elsewhere shine.

A disposition good, a judgment sound,
Will bring substantial pleasures in a wife:
Whilst love and tenderness in thee are found,
Happy and calm will be the married life.



[From the original, copied by Mr. Catcott.]
To Clayfield, long renown'd the Muses' friend,
Presuming on his goodness this I send:
Unknown to you, tranquillity and fame,
In this address perhaps I am to blame.
This rudeness let necessity excuse,

And anxious friendship for a much-lov'd Muse.
Twice have the circling hours unveil'd the east
Since horrour found me and all pleasure ceas'd;
Since ev'ry number tended to deplore;
Since Fame asserted, Phillips was no more.

Say, is he mansion'd in his native spheres,
Or is't a vapour that exhales in tears!
Swift as idea rid me of my pain,
And let my dubious wretchedness be plain.
It is too true: the awfui lyre is strung,
His elegy the sister Muses sung.

O may he live, and useless be the strain!
Fly gen'rous Clayfield, rid me of my pain.
Forgive my boldness, think the urgent cause,
And who can bind necessity with laws:
I wait the admirer of your noble parts,
You, friend to genius, sciences, and arts,



[Transcribed by Mr. Catcott, October 19, 1796, from Chatterton's MS.]


MORALS, as critics must allow,
Are almost out of fashion now,
And if we credit Dodsley's word,
All applications are absurd.

What has the author to be vain in,
Who knows his fable wants explaining,
And substitutes a second scene,

To publish what the first should mean:

Besides, it saucily reflects Upon the reader's intellects. When arm'd in metaphors and dashes, The bard some noble villain lashes, 'Tis a direct affront, no doubt, To think he cannot find it out. The sing-song trifles of the stage, The happy fav'rites of the age, Without a meaning crawl along, And, for a moral, give a song, The tragic Muse, once pure and chaste, Is turn'd a whore, debauch'd by taste: Poor Juliet never claims the tear 'Till borne triumphant on the bier, And Ammon's son is never great 'Till seated in his chair of state; And yet the hariot scarce goes down, She's been so long upon the town, Her morals never can be seen. Not rigid Johnson seems to mean, A tittering epilogue contains The cobweb of a poet's brains. If what the Muse prepares to write To entertain the public sight, Should in its characters be known, The knowledge is the reader's own. When villany and vices shine, You wont find Sandwich in the line; When little rascals rise to fame, Sir Fletcher cannot read his name; Nor will the Muse digressive run, To call the king his mother's son, But plodding on the beaten way, With honest North prepares the lay, And should the meaning figures please The dull reviews of laughing ease, No politician can dispute

My knowledge of the earl of Bute.

A flock of sheep, no matter where,
Was all an aged shepherd's care;
His dogs were watchful, and he took
Upon himself the ruling crook:
His boys who wattled-in the fold
Were never bought and never sold.
'Tis true, by strange affection led,
He visited a turnip bed;

And, fearful of a winter storm,
Employ'd bis wool to keep it warm;
But that comparatively set
Against the present heavy debt,
Was but a trifling piece of state,
And hardly made a villain great.
The shepherd died—the dreadful toll
Entreated masses for his soul.
The pious bosom and the back
Shone in the farce of courtly black.
The weeping laureat's ready pen
Lamented o'er the best of men:
And Oxford sent her load of rhyme
In all varieties of chime,
Administering due consolation,
Well season'd with congratulation.
Cambridge her ancient lumber wrote,
And what could Cambridge do but quote.
All sung, tho' very few could read,
And none but mercers mourn'd indeed,
The younger shepherd caught the crook
And was a monarch in his look.
The flock rejoic'd, and could no less
Than pay their duty and address;

Regard thy interest, ever love thy-self;
Rise into notice as you rise in pelf:
The Muses have no credit here, and fame
Confines itself to the mercantile name;
Then clip imagination's wing, be wise,
And, great in wealth, to real greatness rise:
Or, if you must persist to sing and dream,
Let only panegyric be your theme;

With pulpit adulation tickle Cutts,


And wreath with ivy garlands, tavern butts:
Find sentiment in Dampier's empty look;

[From a manuscript of Chatterton in the posses- Genius in Collins; harmony in Rooke:
sion of Dr. Halifax.]

*And Edinburgh was heard to sing
"Now Heaven be prais'd for such a king."
All join'd in joy and expectation,
And union echoed thro' the nation,
A council call'd-

Swear Broderip's horrid noise the tuneful spheres;
And rescue Pindar from the songs of Shears.
Would you still further raise the fairy ground,
Praise Broughton for his eloquence profound,
His generosity, his sentiment,

Search through the ragged tribe that drink small His active fancy, and his thoughts on Lent.
Make North or Chatham canonize his grace;
And beg a pension, or procure a place."

Damn'd narrow notions! notions which disgrace
The boasted reason of the human race.
Bristol may keep her prudent maxims still:
I scorn her prudence, and I ever will.
Since all my vices magnified are here,
He cannot paint me worse than I appear,
When, raving in the lunacy of ink,
I catch the pen and publish what I think.

How commendable this, to turn at once

To good account the vintner and the dunce;

And by a very hocus pocus hit
Dispose of damag'd claret and bad wit.


And sweetly echo in his worship's ear,
What are the wages of the tuneful Nine?
What are their pleasures when compared to mine?
Happy I eat, and tell my numerous pence,
Free from the servitude of rhyme and sense.
Tho' sing-song Whitehead ushers-in the year,
With joy to Britain's king and sovereign dear;
And, in compliance with an ancient mode,
Measures his syllables into an ode:
Yet such the scurvy merit of his Muse,
He bows to deans, and licks his lordship's shoes.
Then leave the wicked barren way of rhyme,
Fly far from poverty, be wise in time;
Regard the office more, Parnassus less;
Put your religion in a decent dress:

Then may your interest in the town advance,
Above the reach of Muses or romance.
Beside the town, a sober, honest town,
Which smiles on virtue, and gives vice a frown,
Bids censure brand with infamy your name,
I, even 1, must think you are to blame.
Is there a street within this spacious place,
That boasts the happiness of one fair face,
Where conversation does not turn on you,
Blaming your wild amours, your morals too?
Oaths, sacred and tremendous oaths, you swear,
Oaths that might shock a Luttrell's soul to hear:
Those very oaths, as if a thing of joke,
Made to betray, intended to be broke;
Whilst the too teuder and believing maid
Remembers pretty** is betray'd.

Then your religion, Ah! beware! beware!
Altho' a deist is no monster here,

Yet hide your tenets, priests are pow'rful foes,
And priesthood fetters Justice by the nose.
Think not the merit of a jingling song
Can countenance the author's acting wrong.
Reform your manners, and with solemn air
Hear Ct bray, and Rs squeak in prayer.
R, a reverend cully-mully puif,
Who thinks all sermons but his own are stuff;
When harping on the dull unmeaning text,
By disquisitions he's so sore perplext,
He stammers, instantaneously is drawn
A border'd piece of inspiration lawn;
Which being thrice unto his nose apply'd,
Into his pineal gland the vapours glide;
And now we hear the jumping doctor roar
On subjects he dissected thrice before.
Honour the scarlet robe, and let the quill
Be silent when old Isaac eats his fill.


[Transcribed from a MS. in Chatterton's handwriting.]

INTREST, thou universal God of men,
Wait on the couplet and reprove the pen:
If aught unwelcome to thy cars shall rise,
Hold jails and famine to the poet's eyes,
Bid satire sheath her sharp avenging steel,
And lose a number rather than a meal.
Nay, prithee, Honour, do not make us mad,
When I am hungry something must be had:
Can honest consciousness of doing right
Provide a dinner or a bed at night?
What tho' Astrea decks my soul in gold,
My mortal lumber trembles with the cold,
Then, curst tormentor of my peace, be gone'
Flattery's a cloak, and I will put it on.

In a low cottage shaking with the wind,
A door in front, a span of light behind,
Tervono's lungs their mystic play began,
And Nature in the infant mark'd the man.

'The general sense of this extract seems to intimate that it consists of the supposed advice of some friend of Chatterton, who concludes his speech with apostrophes ("); when Chatterton represents himself as replying.

Every effort has been made to obtain the remainder of this poem, but without success. The last possessor who can be traced was the late Dr. Lort. His excutor, Dr. Halifax, has obligingly communicated the preceding fragment, but the remainder of the poem never came into his pos session. Many lines in the Extract from Kew Gardens will appear in the Whore of Babylon, but differently arranged.

Six times the youth of thorn, the golden Sun,
Thro' the twelve stages of his course had run,
Tervono rose, the merchant of the plain,
His soul was traffic, his elysium gain;
The ragged chapman found his word a law,
And lost in barter every fav'rite taw.

Thro' various scenes Tervono still ascends,
And still is making, still forgetting friends:
Full of this maxim, often heard in trade,
Friendship with none but equals should be made.
His soul is all the merchant. None can find
The shadow of a virtue in his mind.
Nor are his vices reason misapplied;
Mean as his spirit, sneaking as his pride.
At city dinner, or a turtle feast,
As expeditious as a hungry priest;
No foe to Bacchanalian brutal rites,
In vile confusion dozing off the nights.
Tervono would be flatter'd; shall I then
In stigmatizing satire shake the pen?
Muse, for his brow, the laurel wreath prepare,
Tho' soon 'twill wither wheu 'tis planted there.
Come panegyric: adulation haste,

And sing this wonder of mercantile taste;
And whilst his virtue rises in my lines,
The patron's happy, and the poet dines.
Some, philosophically cas'd in steel,
Can neither poverty or hunger feel;
But that is not my case: the Muses know
What water-gruel stuff from Phoebus flow.
Then if the rage of satire seize my brain,
May none but brother poets meet the strain:
May bulky aldermen nor vicars rise,
Hung in terrorem to their brother's eyes,
When lost in trance by gospel or by law,
In to their inward room the senses draw,
There as they snoar in consultation deep,
Are by the vulgar reckon'd fast asleep.



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[Transcribed from a MS. in Chatterton's handwriting.]

FAR from the reach of critics and reviews,
Brush up thy pinions and ascend, my Muse;
Of conversation sing an ample theme,
And drink the tea of Heliconian stream.
Hail, matchless linguist! prating Delia, hail!
When scandal's best materials hackney'd fail,
Thy quick invention lends a quick supply,
And all thy talk is one continued lie.
Know, thou eternal babbler, that my song
Could show a line as venom'd as thy tongue.
In pity to thy sex I cease to write
Of London journeys and the marriage-night.
The conversation which in taverns ring
Descends below my satire's soaring sting:
Upon his elbow throne great Maro sits,
Revered at Forster's by the would-be-wits;
Delib'rately the studied jest he breaks,
And long and loud the polish'd table shakes,
Retail'd in every brothel-house in town,
Each dancing booby vends it as his own:
Upon the empty'd jelly-glass reclin❜d,
The laughing Maro gathers up his wind;

[Transcribed from a MS. in Chatterton's hand- The tail-bud 'prentice rubs his hands and grins,


JOYLESS I hail the solemn gloom,

Joyless I view the pillars vast and rude,
Where erst the fool of superstition trod,
In smoking blood imbrued,
And rising from the tomb,
Mistaken homage to an unknown God.

Fancy whither dost thou stray,
Whither dost thou wing thy way,
Check the rising wild delight,
Ah! what avails this awful sight
MARIA is no more!

Ready to laugh before the tale begins:
To talk of freedom, politics, and Butes,
And knotty arguments in law confutes,

I leave to blockheads, for such things design'd,

Be it my task divine to ease the mind.

"To morrow" says a church-of-England priest, "Is of good St. Epiphany the feast.

It nothing matters whether he or she,
But be all servants from their labour free."
The laugh begins with Maro, and goes round,
And the dry jest is very witty found;
In every corner of the room are seen
Round altars covered with eternal green,

Why, curst remembrance, wilt thou haunt my mind, Piled high with offerings to the goddess Fame,

The blessings past are mis'ry now,

Upon her lovely brow

Her lovelier soul she wore,

Soft as the evening gale


When breathing perfumes thro' the rose-hedg'd
She was my joy, my happiness refin'd.

All hail, ye solemn horrours of this scene,
The blasted oak, the dusky green.

Ye dreary altars by whose side
The druid priest in crimson dyed,
The solemn dirges sung,
And drove the golden knife
Into the palpitating seat of life.

Which mortals, chronicles and journals name;
Where in strange jumble flesh and spirit lie,
And illustration sees a jest-book nigh:
Anti-venereal med'cine cheek-by-joul
With Whitfield's famous physic for the soul;
The patriot Wilkes's ever-fam'd Essay,
With Bute and justice in the self-same lay;
Which of the two deserved (ye casuists tell)
The conflagrations of a hangman's hell?

The clock strikes eight; the taper dully shines; Farewell my Muse, nor think of further lines: Nine leaves, and in two hours, or something odd, Shut up the book; it is enough by G―d,

28th Oct.

Sage Gloster's bishop sits supine between
His fiery floggers, and a cure for spleen;
The son of flame, enthusiastic law,
Displays his bigot blade, and thunders draw,
Unconscious of his neighbours, some vile plays
Directing-posts to Beelzebub's highways;
Fools are philosophers in Jones's line,
And, bound in gold and scarlet, Dodsleys shine;
These are the various offerings fame requires,
For ever rising to her shrines in spires;
Hence all Avaro's politics are drain'd,
And Evelina's generai scandal's gain'd.
Where Satan's temple rears its lofty head,
And muddy torrents wash their shrinking bed;
Where the stupendous sons of commerce meet
Sometimes to scold indeed, but oft to cat;
Where frugal Cambria all ner poultry gives,
And where th' insatiate Messalina lives,
A mighty fabric opens to the sight;
With four large columns, five large windows dight;
With four small portals, 'tis with much ado
A common-council lady can pass through:
Here, Hare first teaches supple limbs to bend,
And faults of nature never fails to mend.
Here conversation takes a nobler flight,
For nature leads the theme, and all is right;
The little god of love improves discourse,
And sage discretion finds his thunder hoarse;
About the flame the gilded trifles play,
Till, lost in forge unknown, they melt away,
And, cherishing the passion in the mind,
Their each idea's brighten'd and refin'd.
Ye painted guardians of the lovely fair,
Who spread the saffron bloom, and tinge the hair;
Whose deep invention first found out the art
Of making rapture glow in every part;
Of wounding by each varied attitude,
Sure 'twas a thought divinity endued.



Corrected from the old edition, by a MS. in Chatterton's hand-writing.]

ASSIST me, powers of Heaven! what do I hear?
Surprise and horrour check the burning tear.
Is Phillips dead, and is my friend no more!
Gone like the sand divested from the shore!
And is he gone?-Can then the Nine refuse
To sing with gratitude a favour'd Muse.


No more I hail the morning's golden gleam, No more the wonders of the view I sing; Friendship requires a melancholy theme, At her command the awful lyre I string.

1 After the Elegy to Thomas Phillips had been printed (page 453) a more correct copy came into the possession of the editor (through the medium of T. Hill, esq.) in the hand-writing of Chatterton. As this latter Elegy contained seven or eight new stanzas, besides many verbal alterations, instead of cancelling the old, it was deemed proper to let it remain, and to print the corrected copy also, by which the reader will be pleased in #racing Chatterton's various emendations.

Now as 1 wander thro' this leafless grove,
Where tempests howl, and blasts, eternal rise;
How shall I teach the chorded shell to move,
Or stay the gushing torrent from my eyes?

Phillips! great master of the boundless lyre,
Thee would my soul-rack'd Muse attempt to paint;
Give me a double portion of thy fire,

Or all the powers of language are too faint.

Say, soul unsullied by the filth of vice,
Say, meek-ey'd spirit, where's thy tuneful shell,
Which when the silver stream was lock'd with ice,
Was wont to cheer the tempest-ravag'd dell?

Oft as the filmy veil of evening drew
The thick'ning shade upon the vivid green;
Thou, lost in transport, at the dying view,
Bid'st the ascending Muse display the scene.

When golden Autumn wreath'd in rip'ned corn,
From purple clusters prest the foamy wine,
Thy genius did his sallow brows adorn,
And made the beauties of the season thine.

With rustling sound the yellow foliage flies,
And wantons with the wind in rapid whirls,
The gurgling riv'let to the valleys hies,
Whilst on its bank the spangled serpent curls.

The joyous charms of Spring delighted saw Their beauties doubly glaring in thy lay; Nothing was spring which Phillips did not draw, And every image of his Muse was May.

So rose the regal hyacinthal star,
So shone the verdure of the daisied bed,
So seemed the forest glimmering from a-far;
You saw the real prospect as you read.

Majestic Summer's blooming flow'ry pride, Next claim'd the honour of his nervous song; He taught the stream in hollow trills to giide, And led the glories of the year along.

Pale rugged Winter bending o'er his tread,
His grizzled hair bedropt with icy dew;
His eyes, a dusky light congeal'd and dead
His robe, a tinge of bright etherial blue.

His train a motley'd sanguine sable cloud,
He lips along the russet dreary moor,
Whilst rising whirlwinds, blasting keen and loud,
Roll the white surges to the sounding shore.

Nor were his pleasures unimproved by thee;
Pleasures he has, tho' horridly deform'd;
The polished lake, the silver'd hill we see,
Is by thy genius fir'd, preserv'd and warm'd.
The rough October has his pleasures too;
But I'm insensible to every joy :
Farewell the laurel! now I grasp the yew,
And all my little powers in grief employ.

Immortal shadow of my much-lov'd friend Cloth'd in thy native virtue meet my soul, When on the fatal bed, my passions bend, And curb my floods of anguish as they roll.

In thee each virtue found a pleasing cell, Thy mind was honour and thy soul divine; With thee did every god of genius dwell, Thou wast the Helicon of all the Nine,

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