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 chok'd 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.

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They seem'd two beasts of different kind,
Contra in politics and mind,
The only sympathy they knew,
They both lov'd 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 canal 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 show yourself a priest,
No sermon politic you preach,
No doctrine damnable you teach.
Did not we few maintain the fight,
Myst'ry 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 ev'ry 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, tho' 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 reply'd, "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, Shows 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,
Prepar'd three boxes, gold, lead, stone,
And bid three youngsters claim each one.
The first, a Bristol merchant's heir,
Lov'd pelf above the charming fair;

So 'tis not difficult to say

Which box the dolthead took away.
The next, as sensible as me,
Desir'd the pebbled one, d'ye see.
The other, having scratch'd his head,
Consider'd tho' the third was lead,
'Twas metal still surpassing stone,
So claim'd 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 pray'd 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 scull.
Lost to the melting joys of love-
Not to be borne-like justice move."

And here the dean was running on,
Thro' half a couplet having gone;
Quoth rector peevish, "I sha'nt stay
To throw my precious time away.
The gen'rous 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 whore,
I always beat her from my door,
But Burgum gives, and giving shows
His honour leads him by the nose.
Ah! how unlike the church divine,
Whose feeble lights on mountains shine,
And being plac'd 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 shown,
Is turn'd a bawd to lustful town;
But what against the church you're 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 -
This said, the rector trudg'd along
As heavy as Fowlerian song.
The hollow dean with fairy feet,
Stept lightly thro' the dirty street,

At last, arriv'd at destin'd 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 river burus 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.session

[This poem immediately follows the other. It has no title, and is written upon the same paper, a whole sheet, folded into four columns. The line "Alike beloved, alike respected," ends one column, with a little scrawl at the end; the next begins thus.]

SAY, Baker, if experience hoar
Has yet unbolted wisdom's door,
What is this phantom of the mind,
This love, when sifted and refin'd?
When the poor lover fancy-frighted
Is with 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 talk'd of weather and the season.
Such tremors never coward me,
I'm flattering, impudent and free,
Unmov'd by frowns and low'ring 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 show the joys of Heaven here.
A rake, I take it, is a creature
Who winds thro' 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 pain.
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,
Show it the ladies-wont it take?

A buck's a beast of th' other side,
And real 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 design'd to conquer hearts.
Serene with bottle, pox, and whore,
He's happy, and requires no more.
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
Envenoms every charmer's fame.
And tho' he never touch'd her hand
Protests he had her at command,
The rake in gratitude for pleasure
Keeps reputation dear as treasure.

[After these asterisks, follows without title.]

But Hudibrastics may be found

To tire ye with repeated sound,
So changing for a Shandeyan style
I ask your favour and your smile.


[This poem is taken from the Town and Country Magazine for February, 1770.]

WHY blooms the radiance of the morning sky? Why springs the beauties of the season round! Why buds the blossom with the glossy die?

Ah! why does nature beautify the ground? Whilst softly floating on the Zephyr's wing, The melting accents of the thrushes rise; And all the heav'nly music of the spring, Steal on the sense, and harmonize the skies When the rack'd soul is not attun❜d to joy, When sorrow an internal monarch reigns; In vain the choristers their powers employ, "Tis hateful music, and discordant strains,

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[The following two translations from Horace were made by Chatterton, from Watson's literal version; a book which his friend Mr. Edward Gardner lent him for the express purpose;


and from which gentleman the editor received [From the original, in the possession of Mr. them.]

YES! I am caught, my melting soul
To Venus bends without controul,

I pour th' empassioned sigh.

Ye Gods! what throbs my bosom move,
Responsive to the glance of love,

That beams from Stella's eye.

O how divinely fair that face,
And what a sweet resistless grace
On every feature dwells;
And on those features all the while,
The softness of each frequent smile,
Her sweet good nature tells.

O Love! I'm thine, no more I sing
Heroic deeds-the sounding string

Forgets its wonted strains;
For ought but love the lyre's unstrung,
Love melts and trembles on my tongue
And thrills in every vein.



Go, gentle Muse! and to my fair-one say,
My ardent passion mocks the feeble lay;
That love's pure flame my panting breast inspires,
And friendship warms me with her chaster fires.
Yes, more my fond esteem, my matchless love,
Than the soft turtle's cooing in the grove;
More than the lark delights to mount the sky,
Then sinking on the green-sward soft to lie;
More than the bird of eve at close of day
To pour in solemn solitude her lay;
More than grave Camplin' with his deep-ton'd
To mouth the sacred service got by rote;
More than sage Catcott does his storm of rain,
Sprung from th' abyss of his eccentric brain,
Or than his wild-antique, and sputt'ring brother
Loves in his ale-house chair to drink and pother;


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ON MR. WILLIAM SMITH '. [From the original in the British Museum.] ASCEND my Muse on sorrow's sable plume, Let the soft number meet the swelling sigh; With laureated chaplets deck the tomb,

The bloodstain'd tomb where Smith and comfort lie.

I lov'd him with a brother's ardent love,
Beyond the love which tenderest brothers bear;
Tho' savage kindred bosoms cannot move,
Friendship shall deck his urn and pay the tear.
Despised, an alien to thy father's breast,
Thy ready services repaid with hate;
By brother, father, sisters, all distrest,

They push'd thee on to death, they urged thy fate.
Ye callous breasted brutes in human form,
Have you not often boldly wish'd him dead?
He's gone, ere yet his fire of man was warmı,
O may his crying blood be on your head 2!



[From the Town and Country Magazine for June 1769.]

WHERE Rudborn's waves in clear meanders flow, While skies reflected in its bosom glow;

3 Mr. Lewis was a dissenting preacher of note, then in Bristol. Chatterton calls him in one of his letters a " pulpit fop."

1 Happily mistaken, having since heard, from good authority, it is Peter.

2 Three other poems, ascribed by Dr. Glynn to Chatterton, are preserved in the British Museum; but they are so destitute of sense, and exhibit such flagrant violations of metre, that it is impossible they should have been the compositions of Chatterton. Notice is taken of these poems, that they might not in any shape hereafter be published as genuine. There is this further evidence against them, that they are not in Chatterton's hand-writing. Their titles are,

1. On Mercy.

2. Love and Beauty, a Dialogue. 3. To a Young Lady.

Beneath a willow's solitary shade,

Two weeping virgins on its bank were laid; And while the teass dropp'd fast from either eye, The dimpled waters broke in circles by: | Well skill'd to aim the dart, or guide the car, Their absent lovers join'd the civil war. Where two proud houses sought Britannia's throne,

Their int'rest different, but their views were one. While frequent sighs the fault'ring accents broke, To Juga thus young Eleanora spoke.


O Juga! this my sad complaint attend,
And join in sympathy your hapless friend;
Curst be the quarrel, curst the dread alarms,
That tears sir Robert from my constant arms,
To fight for York. O free from every stain!
May Ebor's rose her ancient white retain;
But fancy ranging far without controul,
With horrours worse than death o'ercomes my soul.
Methinks I see him gasping on the ground,
The life-warm blood still rushing from the wound:
Cold, pale, and weak, upon the plain he lies,
Assist him, Heav'n! assist him, or he dies!


In sorrow's walks, and woe's deserted seats,
In pensive melancholy's dark retreats,
At morn, or eve, when chilling blasts descend,
Incessant mourners we our griefs will blend.
As wither'd oaks their frost-nip'd arms entwine,
I'll pour my tears, and thou shalt mingle thine:
Unfit for joy, like ruin'd tow'rs we'll lay,
Where erst the foot of joy was wont to stray.
Amidst whose desert walls and mould'ring cells,
Pale giant fear, with screaming horrour dwells;
Where oft the dismal gloom of night is broke,
By boding owls, and ravens' funʼral croak.

The deep-mouth'd op'ning pack, the winding horn,

No more shall wake to joy the blushing morn:
In haunted groves I'll trace the loneliest way,
To hide my sorrows from the face of day;
Or thro' the church-way path forlorn I'll go,
With restless ghosts, companions of my woe.
When the pale Moon scarce sheds her wonted

But faintly glimmers thro' the murky night,
Fantastic fairies form the vain array
Of happiness that flies th' approach of day:
Then if the blood of life, congeal'd and froze,
No more within sir Robert's bosom glows,
Frantic I'll clasp his clay devoid of breath,
And racking thought shall torture worse than

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If not, to them despairing let us go, [below.
And join their shades 'midst constant ghosts
This said, like two fair trees whose leafy store
The east has blighted, or the lightning tore;
Or as two clouds, o'ercharg'd with wintry show'rs,
When in the sky the howling tempest low'rs,
Slowly they mov'd.-But Death's remorseless dart
They found had pierc'd each darling hero's heart.

Distracted then, with hasty steps they go,
To where ere while they told the tale of woe:
There hand in hand they view'd the stream awhile,
Each gently sigh'd, and forc'd a parting smile:
Then plung'd beneath the stream, the parting


Receiv'd th' afflicted pair, and prov'd a friendly grave.

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