Man maketh law, but Nature, love;
And in the court above
Love's cast for only fickleness--
But then it is not love.
[Laughter and singing die away in the distance. Chatterton comes from
window, laughs wildly, and then suddenly checks his mirth.]
Chatterton. O, what an unction for the closing eye,
And what a chant to fill the parting ear!
[A distant clock again strikes the hour.]
A signal! be it so. [Drinks poison.] The deed is done.
O, my poor mother!--peace, my anguished soul.
Have mercy, heaven, when I cease to be,
And this last act of wretchedness forgive.
[A look of agony passes over his face; he staggers to the bed and sinks
upon his knees; then he rises and speaks deliriously.]
The coach!--
The coach is coming! I can hear its wheels!
Good-by, my friends; and mother, have no fear:
I shall succeed. I'll write you all from London!
[Falls in the moonlight upon the pieces of his manuscripts, and dies.
Slow curtain. Curtain rises. Lights up. It is morning. Chatterton is
discovered lying on the floor as before. A discussion among voices is
heard without. Loud knocking.]
Mrs. Angell. [From without.] Mr. Chatterton! [Knocking.] Mr.
Chatterton! [Knocking.] Mr. Chatterton!