Who, thinking for himself, despises those
That would upon his better sense impose;
Is to himself the minister of God,

Nor dreads the path where Athanasius trod.
Happy (if mortals can be) is the man,

Who, not by priest but Reason, rules his span:
Reason, to its possessor a sure guide,
Reason, a thorn in Revelation's side.
If Reason fails, incapable to tread
Thro' gloomy Revelation's thick'ning bed,
On what authority the Church we own?
How shall we worship deities unknown?
Can the Eternal Justice pleas'd receive
The prayers of those who, ignorant, believe?
Search the thick multitudes of ev'ry sect,

The Church supreme, with Whitfield's new Elect;
No individual can their God define,

No, not great Penny, in his nervous line.

But why must Chatterton selected sit

The butt of ev'ry critic's little wit?

Am I alone forever in a crime,

Nonsense in prose, or blasphemy in rhyme ?
All monosyllables a line appears?

Is it not very often so in Shears?

See gen'rous Eccas, length'ning out my praise,

Enraptur'd with the music of my lays;

In all the arts of panegyric graced,

The cream of modern literary taste.1

1 These lines are an evident imitation of Pope, even to the

cadence of the verse.-DR. GREGORY.

Why, to be sure, the metaphoric line

Has something sentimental, tender, fine;
But then how hobbling are the other two—
There are some beauties, but they're very few.
Besides the author, 'faith 'tis something odd,
Commends a reverential awe of God.
Read but another fancy of his brain,
He's atheistical in every strain.
Fallacious is the charge-'tis all a lie,
As to my reason I can testify.

I own a God, immortal, boundless, wise,
Who bid our glories of Creation rise;
Who form'd his varied likeness in mankind,
Cent'ring his many wonders in the mind;
Who saw religion, a fantastic night,
But gave us reason to obtain the light.
Indulgent Whitfield scruples not to say,
He only can direct to heaven's highway;
While bishops, with as much vehemence tell,
All sects heterodox are food for hell.

Why then, dear Smith, since doctors disagree,
Their notions are not oracles to me:
What I think right I ever will pursue,

And leave you liberty to do so too.2

1'Sorts' is written under 'sects'; both in the author's handwriting, and uncancelled.

2 Setting aside the opinions of those uncharitable biographers whose imaginations have conducted Chatterton to the gibbet, it may be owned that his unformed character exhibited strong and conflicting elements of good and evil. Even the momentary project of the infidel boy to become a meth

A BURLESQUE CANTATA.

RECITATIVE.

MOUNTED aloft in Bristol's narrow streets,
Where pride and luxury with meanness meets,
A sturdy collier prest the empty sack,
A troop of thousands swarming on his back;
When sudden to his rapt extatic view

Rose the brown beauties of his red-hair'd Sue.
Music spontaneous echoed from his tongue,
And thus the lover rather bawl'd than sung.

AIR.

Zaunds! Pri'thee, pretty Zue, is it thee!
Odzookers I mun have a kiss.

A sweetheart should always be free,
I whope you wunt take it amiss.

odist preacher, betrays an obliquity of design, and a contempt of human credulity, that is not very amiable. But had he been spared, his pride and ambition would have come to flow in proper channels; his understanding would have taught him the practical value of truth and the dignity of virtue, and he would have despised artifice when he had felt the strength and security of wisdom.-CAMPBELL.

Thy peepers are blacker than caul,
Thy carcase is sound as a sack,
Thy visage is whiter than ball,

Odzookers I mun have a smack!

RECITATIVE.

The swain descending, in his raptured arms
Held fast the goddess, and despoiled her charms.
Whilst lock'd in Cupid's amorous embrace,
His jetty skinnis met her red bronz'd face;
It seem'd the sun when labouring in eclipse.
And on her nose he stamp'd his sable lips,
Pleas'd

*

*

IF gentle Love's immortal fire

Could animate the quill,
Soon should the rapture-speaking lyre

Sing Fanny of the Hill.

1 Miss F. B***, on Redcliff Hill, Bristol.

The name of Fanny which was first written, was afterwards cancelled, and that of Betsy substituted in its stead; but for what reason was best known to the author.

SOUTHEY'S Edition.

My panting heart incessant moves,
No interval 'tis still;

And all my ravish'd nature loves
Sweet Fanny of the Hill.

Her dying soft expressive eye,
Her elegance must kill;
Ye Gods! how many thousands die
For Fanny of the Hill.

A love-taught tongue, angelic air,
A sentiment, a skill

In all the graces of the fair,
Mark Fanny of the Hill.

Thou mighty Power, eternal Fate,
My happiness to fill,

O! bless a wretched lover's state
With Fanny of the Hill.

HAPPINESS.

SINCE happiness was not ordain'd for man, Let's make ourselves as easy as we can; Possest with fame or fortune, friend or wBut think it happiness--we want no more.