SLY DICK.1

SHARP was the frost, the wind was high,
And sparkling stars bedeckt the sky,
Sly Dick in arts of cunning skill'd,
Whose rapine all his pockets fill'd,
Had laid him down to take his rest
And soothe with sleep his anxious breast.
'Twas thus a dark infernal sprite

A native of the blackest night,
Portending mischief to devise
Upon Sly Dick he cast his eyes;

Then straight descends the infernal sprite,
And in his chamber does alight:

In visions he before him stands,
And his attention he commands.

Thus spake the sprite-hearken, my friend,
And to my counsels now attend.

1 From a copy in the handwriting of Sir Herbert Croft, in the volume of Chatterton's works purchased by Mr. Waldron at the sale of Sir Herbert's Library. He says, "this was written by Chatterton at about eleven; as well as the following Hymn."-SOUTHEY'S Edition.

Within the garret's spacious dome
There lies a well stor❜d wealthy room,
Well stor❜d with cloth and stockings too,
Which I suppose will do for you,
First from the cloth take thou a purse,
For thee it will not be the worse,
A noble purse rewards thy pains,
A purse to hold thy filching gains;
Then for the stockings let them reeve
And not a scrap behind thee leave,
Five bundles for a penny sell,
And pence to thee will come pell mell;
See it be done with speed and care.
Thus spake the sprite and sunk in air.

When in the morn with thoughts erect
Sly Dick did on his dream reflect,
Why faith, thinks he, 'tis something too,
It might perhaps it might be true,
I'll go and see-away he hies,
And to the garret quick he flies,
Enters the room, cuts up the clothes
And after that reeves up the hose;
Then of the cloth he purses made,
Purses to hold his filching trade.

*** Cætera desunt. ***

A HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS DAY.

ALMIGHTY Framer of, the Skies!
O let our pure devotion rise,
Like Incense in thy Sight!
Wrapt in impenetrable Shade

The Texture of our Souls were made
Till thy Command gave Light.

The Sun of Glory gleam'd the Ray,
Refin❜d the Darkness into Day,

And bid the Vapours fly :
Impell'd by his eternal Love
He left his Palaces above
To cheer our gloomy Sky.

How shall we celebrate the day,
When God appeared in mortal clay,
The mark of worldly scorn;
When the Archangel's heavenly Lays,
Attempted the Redeemer's Praise
And hail'd Salvation's Morn!

A Humble Form the Godhead wore,
The Pains of Poverty he bore,

To gaudy Pomp unknown :
Tho' in a human walk he trod,
Still was the Man Almighty God,
In Glory all his own.

Despis'd, oppress'd, the Godhead bears The Torments of this Vale of tears; Nor bade his Vengeance rise;

He saw the Creatures he had made, Revile his Power, his Peace invade; He saw with Mercy's Eyes.

How shall we celebrate his Name, Who groan'd beneath a Life of shame In all afflictions tried!

The Soul is raptured to conceive

A Truth, which Being must believe, The God Eternal died.

My Soul exert thy Powers, adore,
Upon Devotion's plumage soar
To celebrate the Day:

The God from whom Creation sprung
Shall animate my grateful Tongue;

From him I'll catch the Lay!

APOSTATE WILL.1

IN days of old, when Wesley's power
Gathered new strength by every hour;
Apostate Will, just sunk in trade,
Resolved his bargain should be made;
Then straight to Wesley he repairs,

And puts on grave and solemn airs;

1 This poem is transcribed, says Sir Herbert Croft, from an old pocketbook in his mother's possession. It appears to be his first, perhaps his only copy of it; and is evidently his handwriting. By the date, he was eleven years and almost five months old. It is not the most extraordinary performance in the world: but, from the circumstance of Chatterton's parentage and education, it is unlikely, if not impossible, that he should have met with any assistance or correction; whereas, when we read the ode which Pope wrote at twelve, and another of Cowley at thirteen, we are apt to suspect a parent, friend, or tutor of an amiable dishonesty, of which we feel, perhaps, that we should be guilty. Suspicions of this nature touch not Chatterton. He knew no tutor, no friend, no parent-at least no parent who could correct or assist him.

This poem appears to have been aimed at somebody, who had formerly been a Methodist, and was lately promoted (to the dignity, perhaps, of opening a pew or a grave; for Chatterton was the sexton's nephew) in the established church. LOVE AND MADNESS.