O Chatterton! how very sad thy fate!
Dear child of sorrow — son of misery!
How soon the film of death obscur’d that eye,
Whence Genius mildly falsh’d, and high debate.
How soon that voice, majestic and elate,
Melted in dying numbers! Oh! how nigh
Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die
A half-blown flow’ret which cold blasts amate.
But this is past: thou art among the stars
Of highest heaven: to the rolling spheres
Thou sweetly singest: nought thy hymning mars,
Above the ingrate world and human fears.
On earth the good man base detraction bars
From thy fair name, and waters it with tears.
You May Also Like:
- Specimen Of An Induction To A Poem
- Sonnet Ix. Keen, Fitful Gusts Are
- Sonnet. A Dream, After Reading Dante’s Episode Of Paulo And Francesca
- To George Felton Mathew
- Written In The Cottage Where Burns Was Born
- To A Cat
- The Eve Of Saint Mark. A Fragment
- Ode. Written On The Blank Page Before Beaumont And Fletcher’s Tragi-Comedy ‘The Fair Maid Of The Inn’
Leave a Reply