When to the region of the tuneful Nine,
Rapt in poetic vision, I retire,
Listening intent to catch the strain divine--
What a dead silence hangs upon the lyre!
Lo! with disorder'd locks, and streaming eyes,
Stray the fair daughters of immortal song;
Aonia's realm resounds their plaintive cries,
And all her murmuring rills the grief prolong.
O say! celestial maids, what cause of wo?
Why cease the rapture-breathing strains to soar?
A solemn pause ensues:--then falters low
The voice of sorrow: 'Chatterton's no more!'
'Child of our fondest hopes! whose natal hour
Saw each poetic star indulgent shine;
E'en Phoebus' self o'erruled with kindliest power,
And cried: "ye Nine rejoice! the Birth is mine."
'Soon did he drink of this inspiring spring;
In yonder bower his lisping notes he tried;
We tuned his tongue in choir with us to sing,
And watch'd his progress with delight and pride.
'With doting care we form'd his ripening mind,
Blest with high gifts to mortals rarely known;
Taught him to range, by matter unconfined,
And claim the world of fancy for his own.
'The voice of Glory call'd him to the race;
Upsprung the wondrous Boy with ardent soul,
Started at once with more than human pace,
And urged his flight, impatient for the goal:
'Hope sung her siren lay; the listening Youth
Felt all his breast with rapturous frenzy fired,
He hail'd, and boasted, as prophetic truth,
The bright, triumphant vision Hope inspired:
'But short, alas, his transport! vain his boast!
The illusive dream soon vanishes in shade;
Soon dire Adversity's relentless host,
Neglect, Want, Sorrow, Shame, his peace invade:
'Glad Envy hisses, Ridicule and Scorn
Lash with envenom'd scourge his wounded pride;
Ah! see him, with distracted mien forlorn,
Rush into solitude his pangs to hide.
'There to the Youth, disguised like Hope, Despair
Presents the death-fraught chalice and retires:
In vain, alas! Religion cries, forbear!
Desperate he seizes, drains it, and expires.'
ELEGY,
(WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A YOUNG LADY.)
SYLVIA ON HER DEAD CANARY-BIRD.
Sweet little warbler! art thou dead?
And must I hear thy notes no more?
Then will I make thy funeral bed;
Then shall the Muse thy loss deplore.
Beneath the turf in yonder bower,
Where oft I've listened to thy lay,
Forgetting care, while many an hour
In music sweetly stole away;--
There will I bid thy relics rest;
Then sadly sigh my last farewell;
But long, oh! long within my breast
Thy memory, poor bird! shall dwell.
Still to that spot, now more endear'd,
Shall thy fond mistress oft return,
And haply feel her sorrows cheer'd,
To deck with verse thy simple urn.
'Here lies a bird, once famed to be
Peerless in plumage and in lay;
This was the soul of melody,
And that the golden blush of day.'
'Soon as the Morn began to peep,
While yet with shade her smiles were veil'd,
The sprightly warbler shook off sleep,
And with his song her coming hail'd.'
'His guardian rose, nor scorn'd as mean,
But found it still a pleasing care,
To keep his little mansion clean,
And minister his daily fare.'
'The dewy groundsel was his feast,
Which when the watchful songster view'd,
Straight his loud, thrilling strain he ceased,
And softly chirp'd his gratitude.'
'Then would he peck his savoury treat,--
Turn his head sly, and breathe a note--
Now flutter wild with wings and feet--
Then silent sit--now pour his throat.'
'His playful freaks, his joyous lay,
Well pleased, his mistress would attend;
It call'd affection into play,
And gave to solitude a friend.'
'Thus happily his days he led
Even to the ninth revolving year;
Then Fate, alas! her weapon sped;
And Pity laid his relics here.'