ELEGY
,
TO
THE
MEMORY
OF
MR.
THOMAS
CHATTERTON
,
LATE
OF
BRISTOL
.
HOW
shall
my
pen
make
known
the
sad
event
,
How
tell
the
loss
,
O
,
earth
,
by
thee
sustain'd
;
In
what
expressions
give
the
tidings
vent
,
Of
which
the
thought
,
my
soul
,
so
oft
has
pain'd
?
Why
wilt
thou
,
torturing
reflection
,
mad
Each
fond
idea
of
the
blessings
past
;
Blessings
which
only
to
the
anguish
add
;
O
,
did
their
pleasing
efficacy
last
!
Think
of
his
tender
op'ning
unfledg'd
years
,
Brought
to
a
final
crisis
'ere
mature
:
As
Fate
had
grudg'd
the
wonders
Nature
rears
,
Bright
genius
in
oblivion
to
immure
.
Weep
,
Nature
,
weep
,
the
mighty
loss
bewail
,
The
wonder
of
our
drooping
isle
is
dead
;
O
,
could
but
tears
or
plaintive
sighs
avail
,
By
night
and
day
would
I
bedew
my
bed
.
O
,
give
his
mem'ry
reverential
due
,
His
worth
a
tributary
tear
demands
:
Still
hold
his
many
virtues
in
your
view
,
Then
must
a
free-will
offering
'scape
your
hands
.
Had
but
his
tender
budding
genius
thriv'd
,
Still
blooming
on
,
spite
of
the
frosty
blast
;
Till
ripen'd
into
manhood
still
surviv'd
,
The
fruits
full
ripe
—
how
rich
the
sweet
repast
!
'Ere
vital
utterance
could
scarce
transpire
,
His
infant
lips
evinc'd
a
manly
soul
;
Predicting
that
heroic
mental
fire
,
Which
reign'd
supreme
within
the
mighty
whole
.
Friendship
cemented
by
the
slightest
ties
,
Full
hardly
brooks
the
intervening
cause
That
separates
the
friend
we
lightly
prise
,
Bursting
the
bonds
of
friendship's
sacred
laws
.
Then
how
can
I
but
feel
the
dire
effect
,
Where
infancy
began
the
social
tie
,
Which
still
increas'd
,
void
of
the
least
defect
,
As
each
revolving
year
did
multiply
.
Tho'
great
the
loss
to
me
—
Heav'n
knows
how
great
!
Were
it
but
individually
known
,
I
would
not
vainly
thus
repine
at
fate
,
But
providential
justice
ever
own
.
O
,
that's
not
all
—
my
country
feels
the
stroke
,
The
public
good
was
ever
in
his
view
,
His
pen
his
lofty
sentiments
bespoke
,
Nor
fear'd
he
virtuous
freedom
to
pursue
.
Yes
,
Liberty
!
thy
fair
,
thy
upright
cause
,
He
dar'd
defend
,
spite
of
despotic
force
,
To
crush
his
much-lov'd
country's
wholesome
laws
,
Its
noble
constitution's
only
source
.
Ye
muses
,
leave
your
florid
airy
smiles
,
And
thou
,
mercurial
Euphrosyne
,
Forget
thy
wanton
cranks
and
am'rous
wiles
,
To
sympathize
with
sad
Melpomene
.
Your
pride
is
fallen
—
your
chief
,
your
great
support
,
Lies
mould'ring
to
his
own
primaeval
dust
:
To
you
,
while
living
,
ever
was
his
court
,
Dead
,
in
return
,
let
not
his
mem'ry
rust
.
What
ease
within
his
sweet'ned
numbers
flow'd
,
What
symmetry
each
well-penn'd
line
evinc'd
;
Such
just
connection
on
each
verse
bestow'd
Ev'n
envy
,
of
his
worth
,
must
stand
convinc'd
.
His
lofty
numbers
how
sublimely
great
!
Lifting
the
ravish'd
sense
to
heights
supreme
,
Again
with
fancy
painted
woes
elate
,
He
shews
the
passions
of
the
tragic
theme
.
Sharp
visag'd
Satire
own'd
him
as
her
lord
,
Exclusive
of
her
hand-maid
in
her
train
,
Ill-nature
,
curst
attendant
of
the
board
Of
those
who
stigmatise
mankind
for
gain
.
Not
so
with
him
—
he
paints
each
reigning
vice
In
strongest
colours
of
their
genuine
hue
!
Sweet'ning
the
bitter
draught
with
sav'ry
spice
,
The
moral
picture
relishing
the
view
.
O
,
could
my
pen
but
catch
his
livid
fire
,
Hear
thou
my
invocation
,
mighty
dead
!
My
infant
muse
with
life
mature
inspire
,
Thy
shade
may
dictate
,
tho'
the
substance's
fled
.
Antiquity
,
bewail
his
cruel
sate
,
He
paid
thy
hoary
head
the
rev'rence
due
;
Thy
valu'd
acts
reviving
out
of
date
,
Recalling
ages
past
to
present
view
.
To
truths
long
dead
,
he
gave
a
second
birth
,
Rescuing
from
oblivion
occult
stores
:
Treasures
within
the
bowels
of
the
earth
,
Unheeded
by
the
vulgar
mind
—
explores
.
Most
strange
!
ideas
of
so
vast
extent
Could
e'er
within
his
tender
mind
reside
,
No
art
or
science
but
some
influence
lent
,
His
intellectual
parts
to
make
more
wide
.
Why
,
Fancy
,
wilt
thou
paint
him
to
my
eyes
,
Why
form
the
fond
idea
in
my
mind
;
O
,
couldst
thou
but
some
plastic
means
devise
,
The
substance
with
the
shadow
still
to
find
.
Bristol
,
Oct.
1770
.
T.
C.