Through various scenes Tervono still ascends,
And still is making, still forgetting friends;

Full of this maxim, often heard in trade,
Friendship with none but equals should be made.
His soul is all the merchant. None can find
The shadow of a virtue in his mind.
Nor are his vices reason misapplied;
Mean as his spirit, sneaking as his pride.
At city dinner, or a turtle feast,
As expeditious as a hungry priest:
No foe to Bacchanalian brutal rites,
In vile confusion dozing off the nights.
Tervono would be flatter'd; shall I then

In stigmatizing satire shake the pen?

Muse, for his brow, the laurel wreath prepare,
Though soon 'twill wither when 'tis planted there.
Come panegyric; adulation haste,

And sing this wonder of mercantile taste;
And whilst his virtue rises in my lines,
The patron's happy, and the poet dines.
Some, philosophically cas'd in steel,
Can neither poverty or hunger feel;

But that is not my case; the muses know
What water-gruel stuff from Phœbus flow.
Then if the rage of satire seize my brain,
May none but brother poets meet the strain;
May bulky aldermen nor vicars rise,

Hung in terrorem to their brothers' eyes,

When lost in trance by gospel or by law,
In to their inward room the senses draw,
There as they snore in consultation deep,
Are by the vulgar reckon'd fast asleep.

ELEGY, WRITTEN AT STANTON-DREW.

JOYLESS I hail the solemn gloom,

Joyless I view the pillars vast and rude
Where erst the fool of superstition trod,
In smoking blood imbrued,

And rising from the tomb,
Mistaken homage to an unknown God.

Fancy, whither dost thou stray,
Whither dost thou wing thy way—

Check the rising wild delight,

Ah! what avails this awful sight

MARIA is no more!

Why curst remembrance wilt thou haunt my mind,

The blessings past are mis'ry now,

Upon her lovely brow

Her lovelier soul she wore.

Soft as the evening gale

When breathing perfumes thro' the rose-hedged vale,

She was my joy, my happiness refin'd.

All hail, ye solemn horrors of this scene,

The blasted oak, the dusky green.

Ye dreary altars by whose side

The druid priest in crimson dyed,
The solemn dirges sung,

And drove the golden knife

Into the palpitating seat of life.

When rent with horrid shouts the distant valleys rung,

The bleeding body bends,

The glowing purple stream ascends,

Whilst the troubled spirit near

Hovers in the steamy air,

Again the sacred dirge they sing,

Again the distant hill and coppice valley ring.

Soul of my dear María haste,

Whilst my languid spirits waste,
When from this my prison free,
Catch my soul, it flies to thee;
Death had doubly arm'd his dart,

In piercing thee it pierc'd my heart.

THE ROMANCE OF THE KNIGHT.

MODERNISED BY CHATTERTON.*

From "The Romaunte of the Knyghte by John de Bergham."

THE pleasing sweets of spring and summer past,
The falling leaf flies in the sultry blast,

* See 'Rowley Poems,' page 225, and note.

The fields resign their spangling orbs of gold,
The wrinkled grass its silver joys unfold
Mantling the spreading moor in heavenly white,
Meeting from every hill the ravish'd sight.

The yellow flag uprears its spotted head,
Hanging regardant o'er its wat'ry bed;

The worthy knight ascends his foaming steed,
Of size uncommon, and no common breed.
His sword of giant make hangs from his belt,
Whose piercing edge his daring foes had felt.
To seek for glory and renown he goes

To scatter death among his trembling foes;
Unnerv'd by fear they trembled at his stroke;
So cutting blasts shake the tall mountain oak.

Down in a dark and solitary vale

Where the curst screech-owl sings her fatal tale,
Where copse and brambles interwoven lie,
Where trees intwining arch the azure sky,
Thither the fate-mark'd champion bent his way,
By purling streams to lose the heat of day;
A sudden cry assaults his list'ning ear,

His soul's too noble to admit of fear.—
The cry re-echoes; with his bounding steed
He

gropes the way from whence the cries proceed. The arching trees above obscur'd the light, Here 'twas all evening, there eternal night.

And now the rustling leaves and strengthened cry Bespeaks the cause of the confusion nigh;

Through the thick brake the astonish'd champion sees
A weeping damsel bending on her knees:

A ruffian knyght would force her to the ground,
But still some small resisting strength she found.
(Women and cats, if you compulsion use,
The pleasure which they die for will refuse.)
The champion thus: Desist, discourteous knight,
Why dost thou shametully misuse thy mighte.
With eye contemptuous thus the knight replies,
Begone! whoever dares my fury dies.

Down to the ground the champion's gauntlet flew,
I dare thy fury, and I'll prove it too.

Like two fierce mountain boars enraged they fly, The prancing steeds make Echo rend the sky, Like a fierce tempest is the bloody fight,

Dead from his lofty steed falls the proud ruffian knight.
The victor, sadly pleas'd, accosts the dame,

I will convey you hence to whence you came.
With look of gratitude the fair replied

Content;

I in your virtue may confide.

But, said the fair, as mournful she survey'd
The breathless corse upon the meadow laid,
May all thy sins from heaven forgiveness find!
May not thy body's crimes affect thy mind!