ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF MR. JOHN TANDEY, SENR. A sincere Christian Friend. He died 5th January, 1769, aged 76. I. YE virgins of the sacred choir, To deck the much-lov'd Tandey's urn, And all Parnassus drain. II. Ye ghosts! that leave the silent tomb, Garlands of yew and cypress bring, III. Ye wretches, who could scarcely save Vent the big tear, the soul-felt sigh, For Tandey is no more. IV. To you his charity he dealt, His melting soul your mis'ries felt, Where all the saint was shown. V. In him the social virtues join'd, His judgment sound, his sense refin'd, His actions ever just Who can suppress the rising sigh, To think such saint-like men must die, And mix with common dust. VI. Had virtue pow'r from death to save, The good man ne'er would see the grave, But live immortal here: Hawksworth and Tandey are no more; Lament, ye virtuous and ye poor, 4 N.B.-The above-mentioned gentleman was a man of unblemished character; and father-in-law to Mr. William Barrett, author of the History of Bristol; and lies interred in Redcliff church, in the same vault with Mr. Barrett's wife.-The Elegy would have been inserted in one of the Bristol journals, but was suppressed at the particular request of Mr. Tandey's eldest son.-Note by CHATTERTON. TO A FRIEND, ON HIS INTENDED MARRIAGE. 1. MARRIAGE, dear M, is a serious thing; 'Tis II. Sometimes indeed it is a middle state, III. Observe the partner of thy future state : IV. What we call vices are not always such; V. Choose no religionist; whose every day Is lost to thee and thine-to none a friend : VI. Let not the fortune first engross thy care, Let it a second estimation hold; A Smithfield-marriage is of pleasures bare, And love, without the purse, will soon grow cold. VII. Marry no letter'd damsel, whose wise head May prove it just to graft the horns on thine : Marry no idiot, keep her from thy bed- VIII. A disposition good, a judgment sound, THOMAS CHATTERTON. ON THOMAS PHILLIPS' DEATH.* To Clayfield, long renown'd the Muses' friend, And anxious friendship for a much-lov'd muse. Say, is he mansion'd in his native spheres? And let my dubious wretchedness be plain. O may he live, and useless be the strain ! You, friend to genius, sciences, and arts. A fac-simile of this Poem in Chatterton's hand-writing will be found at page 321. Some few variations will be observed between the autograph and the printed copy. |