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Fancy, whose various fignre-tinctur'd vest Now rest, my Muse, but only rest to weep, Was ever changing to a different hue;
friend made dear by eve:y sacred tie; Her head with varied bays and flowrets drest, Unknown to me be comfort, peace, or sleep: Her eyes two spangles of the morning dew. Phillips is dead! 'tis pleasure then to die. With dancing attitude ske swept thy string; Few are the pleasures Chatterton e'er knew, And now she soars, and now again descends; Short were the moments of his transient peace; And now reclining on the Zephyr's wing,
But melancholy robb’d him of those few, Unto the velvet-vested mead she bends.
And this hath bid all future comfort cease. Peace, deckt in all the softness of the dore, And can the Muse be silent, Phillips gone! Over thy passions spread her silver plume; And am I still alive? My soul, arise! The rosy veil of harmony and love,
The robe of immortality put on, Hung on thy soul in one eternal bloom.
And meet tby Phillips in bis native skies. Peace, gentlest, softest of the virtues, spread
TO THE READER.
Observe in favour of an hobbling strain,
Neat as exported from the parent brain, Temp'rance, with health and beauty in her train And each and every couplet I have penn'd, And massy-muscled strength in graceful pride,
’But little labour'd, and I never mend. Pointed at scarlet luxury and pain,
S U N D A Y,
[Transcribed from a MS. in Chatterton's handThe happy Muse laid every trouble still.
Hervenis, harping on the hackney'd text', But sce the sickening lamp of day retires,
By disquisitions is so sore perplex'd, And the meek evening shakes the dusky grey; He stammers, instantaneously is drawn, The west faint glinmers with the saffron fires, A border'd piece of inspiration lawn, And like thy life, O Phillips! flies away.
Which being thrice unto his nose apply'd,
Into his pineal gland the vapours glide;
And now again we hear the doctor roar
On subjects be dissected thrice before;
I own at church I very seldom pray, And by the glare of lambient vapours write.
For vicars, stravgers to devotion, bray. * Wet with the dew the yellow hawthorns bow ; Sermons, tho' fowing from the sacred lawn, The rustic wł,istles thro' the echoing cave;
Are flimsy wires from reason's ingote?rawn; Far o'er the lea the breathing cattle low,
And to confess the truth, another cause And the full Avon lifts the darken'd wave.
My every prayer and adoration draws;
In all the glaring tinctures of the bow, Now as the mantle of the evening swells
The ladies front me in celestial row; Upon iny mind, I feel a thick’ning gloom; (Tho' when black melancholy damps my joys, Ah could i charm by necromantic spells,
i call them Nature's trifles, airy toys; The soul of Phillips, from the deathy tomb! Yet when the goddess Reason guides the straio,
I think them, what they are, a heavenly train;) Then would we wander thro' this darken'd vale; The amorous roiling, the black sparkling ere, In converse such as heavenly spirits use,
The gentle hazle, and the optic sly; And, bore upon the pinions of the gale,
The easy shape, the panting semi-globes, Hymn the Creator, and exert the Muse.
'The frankness which each latent charm disrobes;
The melting passions, and the sweet severe, But, horrour to reflection! now no more,
The easy amble, the majestic air; Will Phillips sing, the wonder of the plain! The tap’ring waste, the silver-mantled aros, When, doubting whether they might not adore, All is one vast variety of charms. Admiring mortals heard his nervous strain.
Say, who but sages stretch'd beyond their span,
Italian singers, or an unman'd man, See! see! the pitchy vapour hides the lawn,
Can see Elysium spread upon their brow, Nought but a doleful bell of death is heard,
And to a drousy curate's sermon bow. Sare where into a blasted oak withdrawn
If (but 'tis seldom) no fair female face The scream proclaims the curst nocturnal bird.
Attracts my notice by some glowing grace,
• Note on this verse by Chatterton, “ Expunged as too lowery for grief.”
'These lines occur in the Extract from Ker Gardens, p. 477.
Around the monuments I cast my eyes,
AIR. And see absurdities and nonsense rise.
Sighing, Here rueful-visag'd angels seem to tell
Dying, With weeping eyes, a soul is gone to Hell ;
Lying, There a child's head supported by duck's wings,
Frying, With toothless mouth a hallelujah sings:
In the furnace of desire; In fun'ral pile eternal marble burns,
Oh! how slow the hours retire!
When the busy heart is beating, And virtues blubber with no awkward grace;
When the bosom's all on fire, Yet, strange to tell, in all the dreary gloom
Oh! how welcome is the meeting!
Oh! how slow the hours retire!
RECITATIVE. L'This drama, with the songs, was printed sepa
rately in the year 1795, from a MS. of Chatter. See, see, my good man steals aside! ton in the possession of Mr. Atterbury.]
In spite of his thunder,
I make him knock under,
And own the superior right of a bride.
How happy the life
Of a governing wife,
How charming, how easy, the swift minutes pass;
Let her do what she will,
The husband is still,
And but for his horns you would think him an ass.
How happy the spouse
In his diguify'd brows;
How worthy with herves and monarchs to class:
Both above and below,
Experience will show,
But take off the horns, and each husband's an ass. If blows and thunder cannot tame a shrew? AIR.
JUPITER, Tho' the loud thunder rumbles,
[aside. Tho' storms rend the sky; Yet louder she grumbles,
Zounds, I 'll take heart of grace, and brave her And sweils the sharp cry.
And, if my courage holds, egad I'll strap her:
Thro' all Olympus shall the thunders roll,
And Earth shall echo to the mustard bowl,
Should she prove sturdy, by the Lord l’il heave
Down to some brandy-shop, this noisy griev-
What means this horrid rattle?
And must that tongue of riot
Wage one eternal battle
With happiness and quiet?
D'ye think I mind your bluster?
II VOL. XV.
Your godship's always best in
A method I'll pursue, Words, thunder, noise and Auster.
l'll sooth him, tickle, coax hin, Then I shall have my due.
He neither fills my freezing bed, my heart, nor
See how she flies, whilst warring passions shake To a spiritless log;
her, Let her fondle or frown,
Nor thought nor lightning now can overtake her. Yet still he's a clog.
AIR. Let her please ber own mind,
How often in the marriage state, Abroad let her roam;
The wise, the sensible, the great, Abroad she inay find,
Find misery and woe: What she can't find at home.
Though, should we dive in Nature's laws,
To trace the first primeval cause,
The wretch is self-made so.
Love's a pleasure, solid, real,
Nothing fanciful, ideal,
'Tis the bliss of humankind; Your devil of a spouse is always doing
All the other passions move, Pray step aside-This evening, I protest,
In subjection under love, Jove and miss Maia-you may guess the rest
'Tis the tyrant of the mind. JUNO.
SCENE VI. dlow! What! When! Where! Nay, prithee now
CUPID, Bacchus with a bowl.
RECITATIVE. 'Gad—so I will; for faith I cannot hold it.
Odsniggers, t'other draught, 'tis dev'lish heady, His mighty godship in a fiery flurry,
Olympus turns about; (staggers) steady, boys, Met me just now- -Confusion to his hurry!
steady. I stopt his way, forsooth, and, with a thwack,
AIR. He laid a thunderbolt across my back: Bless me! I feel it now my short ribs ache yet, If Jove should pretend that he governs the skies, I vow'd revenge, and now by Styx I'll take it. I swear by this liquor his thundership lies; Miss Maja, in her chamber, after nine,
A slave to his bottle, he governs by wine, Receives the thund'rer, in his robes divine;
And all must confess he's a servant of mine, I undermin'd it all; see, here's the letter:
AIR CHANGES. Could dukes spell worse, whose tutors spelt no better?
Rosy, sparkling, powerful wine,
Search the drinking world around,
Bacchus ev'ry where sits crown'd:
Whilst we lift the flowing bowl, passion!
Unregarded thunders roll.
Is but a piece of clay,
Whose mystic moisture lost by age, Nay, pray be calm; l’ve bit of an expedient
To dust it falls away. To do you right
'Tis orthodox beyond a doubt,
That drought will only fret it:
To make the brittle stuff hold out,
Is thus to drink and wet it.
Ah! master Cupid, 'slife I did not s'ye,
'Tis excellent Champagne, and so here's t'ye:
I brought it to these gardens as imported,
'Tis bloody strong, you need not twice be courted. An excellent scheme! My joy 's beyond expres- Come drink, my boysion!
Hence, monster, hence! I scorn thy flowing bowl Nay, never stay; delaying may confute it. It prostitutes the sense, degenerates the soul. JUNO.
BACCHUS. O happy thought! I By to execute it.
Gadso, methinks the youngster's woundy moral! (Exit Juno. He plays with ethics like a bell and coral.
You soul of a brimmer-
You tool of the fair-
You moveable tun,
Nay, then the work's done, Or with this dart, I'll send you catterwauling.
My arrow is shot.
[Bacchus throws the contents of the bowl in Cupid's fuce, AIR.
and runs off. The charms of wine cannot compare With the soft raptures of the fair;
SCENE VII. Can drunken pleasures ever find
CUPII). A place with love and womankind ?
RECITATI VĖ. Can the full bowl pretend to vie
Kind usage this-it sorely shall befall him With the soft languish of the eye?
Here's my best arrow, and by Heav'n I'll maul Can the mad roar our passions move,
[him; Like gentle breathing sighs of love?
Revenge! Revenge! Oh, how I long to wound BACCHUS.
Now all the pangs of slighted love confound him
No more in the bowl
His brutalized soul
Shall find a retreat from the lass :
I'll pay him,
And slay him,
ACT II. SCENE I.
BACCHUS, with his bowl on his head.
Alas! alas ! how fast
I feel ny spirits sinking;
The joys of life are past,
I've lost the power of drinking :
Egad, I find at last,
The heav'nly charın of tinking,
And in the sound I cast
The miseries of thinking.
I'm plaguy ill-in dev'lish bad condition
What shall I do-I'll send for a physician: Away, you drunken wild
But then the horrid fees--aye, there's the questionBACCHUS.
'Tis losing all a man's estate in jesting; Away, you silly child
Whilst nurses and apothecaries partake [ache.
Zounds, this will never do, 'twill make my heart CUPID.
Come then, ye fidlers, play up t'other bout,
I've a new nostrum, and I'll sing it out.
Scrape, ye fidlers, tinkle, tinkle,
Music makes my twinklers twinkle