Then your religion, ah! beware, beware,

Begin the mournful strain;
Altho' a deist is no monster here,

To deck the much-lov'd Tande y's urn,
Yet bide your tenets, priests are powerful foes, Let the poetic genius burn,
And priesthood fetters justice by the nose.

And all Parnassus drain.
Think not the merit of a jingling song
Can countenance the author's acting wrong;

Ye ghosts! that leave the silent tomb,

To wander in the midnight gloom,
Reform your manners, and with solemn air
Hear C-tbray and Rsqueak in pray'r.

Unseen by mortal eye:
Honour the scarlet robe, and let the quili

Gariands of yew and cypress bring, Be silent when his worship eats his fill.

Adorn his tomb, his praises sing,

And swell the gen'ral sigh.
Rrgard thy int'rest, ever love thyself;
Rise into notice, as you rise in pelf;

Ye wretches, who could scarcely sare
The Muses have no credit here, and fame

Your starving offspring from the grave, Confines itself to the mercantile name;

By God afflicted sore; Then clip imagination's wing, be wise,

Vent the big tear, the soul-felt sigh, And great in wealth, (to real greatness rise;)

And swell your mcagre infant's cry, Or, if you must persist to sing and dream,

For Tau iey is no more.
Let only panegyric be your theme:

To you his charity he dealt,
Make North a Chatham, canonize his grace, His melting soul your mis'ries felt,
Aud get a pension, or procure a place.".

And made your woes his own :
Dainn'd narrow notions! tending to disgrace A common friend to all mankind;
The boasted reason of the hunnan race.

His face the index of his mind,
Bristol may keep her prudent maxims still,

Where all the saint was shown.
But know, my saving friends, I never will.
The composition of my soul is made

In him the social virtues join’d,
Too gr at for servile, avaricious trade:

His judgment sound, his sense refin'd, When raving in the lunacy of ink

His actions ever just I catch the pen, and publish what I think.

Who can suppress the rising sigh, North is a creature, and the king's misled;

To think such saint-like men must die, Manstield and Norton came as justice fled:

And mix with common dust. Few of our ministers are over wise:

Had virtue pow'r from death to save, Od Harpagon's a cheat, and Taylor lies.

The good man ne'er would see the grave,
When cooler judgment actuates my brain,

But live immortal here:
My cooler judginent still approves the strain; Hawksworth and Tandey are no more ;
And if a borrid picture greeis your view,

Lament, ye virtuous and ye poor,
There it continues stili, if copied true.

And drop the unitigned tear.
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 evry happiness the best,
Is all my Heaven; religion is a jest,

[From the original, copied by Mr. Catoott.] Nor shall the Muse in any future book

Marriage, dear M-, is a serious thing; With awe upon the chains of favour look:

'Tis proper every man should think it so: North shall in all his vices be display d,

"Twill cither ev'ry human blessing bring, And Warburton in lively pride array'd;

Or load thee with a settlement of woe. Sandwich shall undergo the healing lash,

Sometimes indeed it is a middle state, And read his character without a dash :

Nither supremely blest nor deeply curst; Mansfield, surrounded by his dogs of law,

A sta znant pool of life; a dream of fate:
Shall see his picture drawn in ev'ry flaw:

In any opinion, of all states the worst.
Luttrell, (if satire can descend so low)
Shall all his native little vices show:

Observe the partner of thy future state:
And Grafton, tho' prudentially resign'd,

If no strong vice is stamp'd upon her mind, Shall view a striking copy of his mind.

Take her; and let her ease try am'rous pain: Whilst iron Justice, lifting up her scales,

A little errour, proves her human-kind.
Shall weigh the princess dowager of Wales.

What we call vices are not always such;
Finis. Book the first. Some virtues scarce deserve the sacre i 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 ON THE DEATH OF MR. JOHN TANDEY, SENR.

of unblemished character; and father-in-law to A sincere Christian friend. He died 5th January, Mr. William Barrett, author of the History of 1769, aged 76.

Bristol; and lies interred in Redcliff church, in

the same vault with Mr. Barrett's wife. The (From the original, copied by Mr. Catcott.]

Elegy would have been inserted in one of the Ye virgins of the sacred choir

Bristol journals, but was suppressed at the parAwake the soul-dissolving lyre,

ticular request of Mr. Tandy's eldest son,

Choose no religionist; whose every day

Besides, it saucily reflects Is lost to thee and thine, to none a friend:

Upon the reader's intellects. Know too, wben pleasure calls the heart astray, When arm'd in metaphors and dashes, The warmest zealot is the blackest fiend.

The bard some noble villain lashes,

'Tis a direct affront, no doubt, Let not the fortune first engross thy care,

To think he cannot find it out. Let it a second estimation hold:

The sing-song trifies of the stage, A Smithfield marriage is of pleasures bare,

The happy fav'rites of the age, And love, without the purse, will soon grow cold.

Witho'it a meaning crawl along,

And, for a moral, give a song,
Marry no letter'd damsel, whose wise head
May prove it just to graft the horns oa thine:

The tragic Muse, once pure and chaste,

Is turn'd a whore, debauch'd by taste: Marry no idiot, keep her from thy bed;

Poor Juliet never claims the rear What the brains want, will often elsewhere shine.

'Till borne triumphant on the bier, A disposition good, a judgment sound,

And Ammon's son is never great Will bring substantial pleasures in a wife:

'Till spated in his chair of state; Whilst love and tenderness in thee are found, And yet the hariot scarce goes down, Happy and calnı will be the married life.

She's bren so long upon the town,

Her morals nerer 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 ON THOMAS PHILLIPS'S DEATH.

To entertain the public sight,
Should in its characters be known,

The knowledge is the reader's own. [From the original, copied by Mr. Catcott.]

When villany and vices shine, To Clayfield, long renown’d the Muses' friend, You wo'nt find Sandwich in the line; Presuming on bis goodness this I send:

When little rascals rise to faine, Unknown to you, tranquillity and fame,

Sir Fletcher cannot read his name; In this address perhaps I am to blame.

Nor will the Muse digressive run, This rudeness let necessity excuse,

To call the king his mother's son, And anxious friendship for a much-lov'd Muse. But plodding on the beaten way, Twice have the circling hours unveil'd the cast With honest North prepares the lay, Since horrour found me and all pleasure ceas'd;

And should the meaning figures please Since ev'ry number tended to deplore;

The dull reviews of laughing ease, Since Fame asserted, Phillips was no more.

No politician can dispute Say, is he mansion'd in his native spheres,

My knowledge of the earl of Bute. Or is't a vapour that exhales in tears!

A flock of sheep, no matter where, Swift as idea rid me of my pain,

Was all an aged shepherd's care; And let my dubious wretchedness be plain.

His dogs were watchful, and he took It is too true: the awfui lyre is strung,

Upon himself the ruling crook: His elegy the sister Muses sung.

His boys who wattled-in the fold O may be live, and useiess be the strain!

Were never bought and never sold. Fly gen'rous Clayfield, rid me of my pain.

'Tis true, by strange afiection led, Forgive my boldness, think the urgent cause,

He visited a turnip bed; And who can bind necessity with laws:

And, fearful of a winter storm, I wait the admirer of your noble parts,

Employ'd his wool to keep it warm; You, friend to genius, sciences, and arts,

But that comparatively set
Against the present heavy debt,
Was but a tridling 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 ADDRESSED TO MR. MICHAEL CLAYFIELD, OF Shone in the farce of courtly black. BRISTOL.

The weeping laureat's ready pen

Lamented o'er the best of nen: [Transcribed by Mr. Catcott, October 19, 1796, from Chatterton's MS.]

And Oxford sent her load of rhyme

In all varieties of chime,

Administering due consolation,

Well season'd with congratulation, Morals, as critics must allow,

Cambridge her ancient luniber wrote, Are alınost out of fashion now,

And what could Cambridge do but quote. And if we credit Dodsley's word,

All sung, tho' very few could read, All applications are absurd.

And none but mercers mourn'd indeed. What has the author to be vain in,

The younger shepherd caught the crooke Who knows his fable wants explaining,

And was a mouarch in his look. And substitutes a second scene,

The fock rejoicd, and could no less To publish what the first should mean:

Than pay their duty and address;

* And Edinburgh was heard to sing

Regard thy interest, ever lore thy-self; * Now Heavın be prais'd for such a king." Rise into notice as you rise in pelt: All join'd in joy and expectation,

The Muses have no credit here, and fame And union echoed thro' the nation.

Confines itself to the mercantile name;
A council callid

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: (From a manuscript of Chatterton in the posses- | Genius in Collins; harmony in Rooke:

Find sentiment in Dampier's empty look; sion of Dr. Halifax.]

Swear Broderip's horrid noise the tuneful spheres; How commendable this, to turn at once And rescue Pindar from the songs of Shears. To znod account the vintner and the dunce; Would you still further raise the fairy ground, And by a very hocus pocus hit

Praise Broughton for his eloquence profound, Dispose of damag'd claret and bad wit.

His generosity, his sentiment, Search through the ragged tiibe that drink small His active fanry, and his thoughts on Lent. beer,

Make North or Chatham canonize his grace; And sweetly echo in bis worship's ear,

And beg a pension, or procure a place." What are the wages of the tuneful Nine?

Damnd narrow notions! notions which disgrace
What are their pleasures when compared to mine? The boasted reason of the human race.
Happy I cat, and tell my numerous pence, Bristol may keep her prudent maxims still:
Free from the servitude of rhyme and sense. I scoru her prudence, and I ever will.
Tho'sing-song Whitehead ushers-in the year, Since all my vices magnified are here,
With joy to Britain's king and sovereign dear; He cannot paint me worse than I appear,
And, in compliance with an ancient mode, When, raving in the lunacy of ink,
Measures his syllabjes into an ode:

I catch the pen and publish what I think'.
Yet such the scurvy merit of his Muse,
He bows to deans, and licks his lords hip'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,

[Transcribed from a MS. in Chatterton's handAbove the reach of Muses or romance,

writing.) Beside the town, a sober, honest town, Which smiles on virtue, and gives vice a frown,

INT'REST, thou universal God of men, Bids censure brand with infamy your name,

Wait on the couplet and reprove the pen: 1, even I, must think you are to blame.

If aught unwelcome to thy ears shall rise, Is there a street within this spacious place,

Hold jails and famine to the poet's eyes, That boasts the happiness of one fair face,

Bid satire sheath her sharp avenging steel, Where conversation does not turn on you,

And lose a number rather than a meal. Blaming your wild amours, your morals too?

Nay, prithee, Honour, do not make us mad, Oaths, sacred and tremendous oaths, you swear,

When I am hungry something must be had: Oaths that might shock a Luttrell's soul to hear:

Can honest consciousness of doing right

Provide a dinner or a bed at night?
Those very oaths, as if a thing of joke,
Made to betray, intenried to be broke;

What tho' Astrea decks my soul in gold,
Whilst the too tender and believing maid

My mortal lumber trembles with the cold, Remembers pretty * * is betray'd.

Then, curst tormentor of my peace, be gone! Then your religion, Ah! beware! beware!

Flattery's a cloak, and I will put it on. Altho' a deist is no monster here,

In a low cottage shaking with the wind, Yet hide your tenets, priests are pow'rful foes,

A door in front, a span of light behind, And priesthood fetters Justice by the nose.

Tervono's lungs theic mystic play began,
Think not the merit of a jingling song

And Nature in the infant mark'd the man.
Can countenance the author's acting wrong.
Reforın your manners, and with solemn air

*The general sense of this extract seems to intia Hear (tbray, and Rs squeak in prayer. mate that it consists of the supposed advice of R-, a reverend cully-mully puff,

some friend of Chatterton, who concludes his Who thinks all sermons but his own are stuff; speech with apostrophes ("); when Chatterton When harping on the dull unmeaning text, represents himself as replying, By disquisitions he's so sore perplext,

Every effort has been made to obtain the reHe stainmers, instantaneously is drawn

mainder of this poem, but without success. The A border'd piece of inspiration lawn;

last possessor who can be traced was the late Dr. Which being thrice unto his nose apply'd, Lört. His excutor, Dr. Halifax, has obligingly Into his pineal gland the vapours glide;

communicated the preceding fragment, but the And now we hear the jumping doctor roar remainder of the poem never came into his posOn subjects he dissected thrice before.

session. Many lines in the Extract froin Kew Honour the scarlet robe, and let the quilt

Gardens will appear in the Whore of Babye De silent when old Isaac eats his fill.

lon, but differently arranged.

Six times the youth of morn, the golden Sun, When rent with horrid shouts the distant Fallets Thro' the twelve stages of his course bad run, The bleeding body bends,

[rung, Tervono rose, the merchant of the plain,

The glowing purple stream ascends, His soul was traffic, bis elysium gain;

Whilst the troubled spirit near The rageed chapman found his word a law,

Hovers in the steamy air, And lost in barter every fav'rite taw.

Again the sacred dirge they sing, Thro' various scenes Tervono still ascends, Again the distant hill and coppice valley ring. And still is making, still forgetting friends:

Soul of my dear Maria haste, Full of this maxim, often heard in trade,

Whilst my languid spirits waste, Friendship with none but equals should be made. When from this my prison frex, His soul is all the merchant. None can find

Catch my soul, it flies tu thee; The shadow of a virtue in his mind.

Death bad doubly arm'd his dart,
Nor are his vices reason misapplied;

lu piercing thee it pierc'd my heart.
Mean as his spirit, sneaking as bis pride.
At city dinner, or a turtle feast,
As expediticus as a hungry priest;
No foe to Bacchanalian brutal rites,

In vile confusion dozing off the nights.
Tervono would be tlatter'd; shall I then

[Transcribed from a MS. in Chatterton's bandIn stigmatizing satire shake the pen?

writing.) Muse, for his brow, the laurel wreath prepare, Far from the reach of critics and reviews, Tho' soon 'twill wither wheu 'tis planted there. Brush up thy pinions and ascend, my Muse; Come panegyric: adulation laste,

Of conversation sing an ample theme, And sing this wonder of mercantile taste;

And drink the tea of Heliconian stream. And whilst his virtue rises in my lines,

Hail, matchless linguist! prating Delia, hail! The patron's happy, and the poet dines.

Wben scandal's best materials backney'd fail, Some, philosophically cas'd in steel,

Thy quick invention lends a quick supply, Can neither poverty or hunger feel;

And all thy talk is one continued lie. But that is not my case: the Muses know Know, thou eternal babbler, that my song What water-gruel stufl from Phoebus fow. Could show a line as venom'd as thy tongue. Then if the rage of satire seize my brain,

In pity to thy sex I cease to write May none but brother poets meet the strain:

Of London journeys and the marriage-night. May bulky aldermen nor vicars rise,

The conversation which in taverns ring Hung in terrorem to their brother's eyes,

Descends below my satire's soaring sting: When lost in trance by gospel or by law,

Upon his elbow throne great Maro sits, In to their inward room the senses draw,

Revered at forster's by the would-be-wits; 'There as they snoar in consultation deep,

Delib'rately the studied jest he breaks,
Are by the vulgar reckon'd fast asleep.

And long and loud the polish'd table shakes,
Retail'd in every brothel-house in town,

Fach 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 land- The tail-bud 'prentice rubs his hands and grins, writing.)

Ready to laugh before the tale begins:

To talk of freedom, politics, and Butes, Joyless I hail the solemn gloom,

And knotty arguments in law confutes, Joyless I view the pillars vast and rude, I leave to blockheads, for such things design’d, Where erst the fool of superstition trod,

Be it my task divine to ease the mind. În smoking blood imbrued,

“To morrow” says a church-of-England priest, And rising from the tomb,

“ Is of good St. Epiphany the feast. Nistaken homage to an unknown God.

It nothing matters whether he or she, Fancy whither dost thou stray,

But be all servants from tbeir labour free. » Whither dost thou wing thy way,

The laugh begins with Maro, and goes round, Check the rising wild delight,

And the dry jest is very witty found; Ah! what arails this awful sight

In every corner of the room are seen MARIA is no more!

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,

Which mortals, chronicles and journals name; Upon her lovely brow

Where strance jumble flesh and spirit lie, Her lovelier soul she wore,

And illustration sees a jest-book nigh: soft as the evening gale

(vale, | Anti-venereal med'cine cheek-by-joul When breathing perfumes thro' the rose-hedg'd With Whitfild's famous physic for the soul; She was my joy, my happiness refin'd.

The patriot Wilkes's ever-fam'd Essay, All hail, ye solemn horrours of this scene, With Bute and justice in the self-same lay; The blasted oak, the dusky green.

Which of the two deserved (ye casuists lell) Ye dreary altars by whose side

The conflagrations of a hangman's bell? The druid priest in crimson dyed,

The clock strikes eight; the taper dully shines; The solemn dirges sung,

Farewell my Muse, nor think of further lines: And drove the golden knife

Nine leaves, and in two hours, or something odd, Into the palpitating seat of life.

Shut up the book; it is enough by G-d,

Sth Oct.

Now as I wander thro this leafless grore, Sage Gloster's bishop sits supine between Where tempests howl, and blasts, eternal rise ; His fiery tloggers, and a cure for spleen;

How shall I teach the chorded shell to move, The son of lame, enthusiastic law,

Or stay the gushing torrent from my eyes? Displays his bigot blade, and thunders draw,

Phillips! great master of the boundless lyre, Unconscious of his neighbours, some vile plays

Thee would my soul-rack'd Muse attempt to paint; Directing-posts to Be eizebub's highways;

Give me a double portion of tby fire,
Pools are philosophers in Jones's line,

Or all the powers of language are two faint.
And, bound in gold and scarlet, Dudsleys shine;
These are the various offerings fame requires, Say, soul unsullied by the filth of vice,
For ever rising to her shrines in spires;

Say, meek-ey'd spirit, where's thy tuneful shell, Hence all Avuru's politics are crain'd,

Which when the silver stream was lock'd with ice, And Evelina's general scandal's gain'd.

Was wont to cheer the tempest-ravag'd dell? Where Satan s temple rears its lofty bead, And muudy torrents wash their shrinking bed; Oft as the filmy veil of evening drew Where the stupendous sons of cominerce meet

The thick’ning shade upon the vivid green; Sometimes to scold indeed, but oft to cat;

Thou, lost in transport, at the dying view, Where frugal Cainbria all ner poultry gives,

Biu'st the ascending Muse display the scene. And where th’insatiate Messalina lives, A mighty fabric opens to the sight;

When golden Autumn wreath'd in rip'ned corn, With four large columns, tive large windows dight; | Thy genius did bis saliow brows adorn,

From purple clu ters prest the foamy wine, With four small portals, 'ris with much ado

And made the beauties of the season thine. A common-council lady can pass through: Here, Hare first teaches supple limbs to bend, With rustling sound the yellow foliage flies, And faults of nature never fails to mend.

And wantvus with the wind in rapid whirls, Here couversation takes a nobler flight,

The gurgling riv'let to the valleys hies, for nature leads the theme, and all is right; Whilst on its bank the spangled serpent curls. The little god of love improves discourse, And sage discretion finds his thunder hoarse; The joyous charms of Spring delighted saw About the flame the gilded trifles play,

Their beauties doubly glaring in thy lay;
Till, lost in forge unkuown, they melt away, Nothing was spring which Phillips did not draw,
And, cherishing the passion in the mind,

Aud every image of his Muse was May.
Their each idea's brighten'd and refin'd.
Ye painted guardians of the iovely fair,

So rose the regal hyacinthal star,
Who spread the saffron bloon, and tinge the hair; So shone the verdure of the daisied bed,
Whose deep invention first found out the art

So seemed the forest glimmering from a-far; Of making rapture glow in every part;

You saw the real prospect as you read. Of wounding by each varied attitude,

Majestic Summer's blooming flow'ry pride,
Sure 'twas a thought divinity endued.

Next claiın'd the honour of his nervous sung;
He taught the stream in hollow trills to giide,

And led the glories of the year along.

Pale rugged Winter bending v'er his tread,

His grizzled hair beropt with icy dew;

His eyes, a dusky light congea!d and dead Corrected from the old edition, by a MS. in Chat- His robe, a tinge of bright etherial blue. terton's band-writing.)

His trajn a motley'd sanguine sable cloud, Assist me, powers of Heaven! what do I hear?

He limps along the russet dreary moor, Surprise and horrour check the burning tear,

Whilst rising whirlwinds, blasting keen and Joul, Is Phillips dead, and is my friend no more!

Roll tie white surges to the sounding shore. Gone like the sand divested from the shore ! And is he gone?-Can then the Nine refuse Nor were his pleasures unimproved by thee; To sing with gratitude a favourd Muse,

Pleas'ıres be has, tho' horrid y deformu'd;

The polished lake, the silver'd hili we see,

Is by thy genius fir'd, preserv'd and warun'd. So more I hail the morning's golden gleam,

The rough October has his pleasures too; No more the wonders of the view I sing;

But I'm insensible to every joy : Friendship requires a melancholy theme,

Farewell the laurel! now I At her command the awful lyre 1 string.

grasp the rew,

And all my little powers in grief employ. 1 After the Elegy to Thomas Phillips had been printed (page 453) a more correct copy came Immortal shadow of my much-lov't friend into the possession of the editor (through the me- Cotlid in thy native virtue meet my soul, dium of T. Hill, esq.) in the hand-writing of Chat. When on the fatal bed, my passions bend, terton. As this latter Elegy contained seven or And curb my floods of anguish as they rol.' eight new stanzas, besides many verbal alterations, instead of cancelling the old, it was deemed in thee each virtue found a pleasing cell, proper to let it remain, and to print the corrected Thy inind was honour and thy soul divine; cupy also, by which the reader will be pleased in With thee did every god of genius dwell, tracing Chatterton's various emendations.

Thou wast the Helicon of all the Nine,

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