Nor honorary gifts, nor pensions, please,
Say, are you Covent-Garden patentees!
How? wist you not what ancient sages said,
The council quarrels, and the poor have bread.
See this court-pie with twenty thousand drest;
Be every thought of enmity at rest:

Divide it and be friends again," he said:
The council god return'd; and Discord fled.1

1 Growing up separate and alien, in a great degree, from the social interests and sentiments which bind men together, Chatterton was habitually ready and watchful for occasions to practise on their weakness and folly, and to indulge a propensity to annoyance by satire. He would play off the witty malice, no matter who was the object. He was a very Ishmael with this weapon. It is somewhere his own confession, that, when the mood was on him, he spared neither foe nor friend. Very greatly amusing as it may well be believed that his company was, when he chose to give it, nobody was safe against having his name, with his peculiarities, his hobby, his vanity, hitched into some sarcastic stanza.-ECLECTIC REVIEW.

ELEGY.

JOYLESS I seek the solitary shade,

Where dusky contemplation veils the scene, The dark retreat (of leafless branches made) Where sick'ning sorrow wets the yellow'd green.

The darksome ruins of some sacred cell,
Where erst the sons of Superstition trod,
Tott'ring upon the mossy meadow, tell
We better know, but less adore our God.

Now, as I mournful tread the gloomy cave, Thro' the wide window (once with mysteries dight)

The distant forest, and the darken'd wave

Of the swoln Avon ravishes my sight.

But see, the thick'ning veil of evening's drawn, The azure changes to a sable blue;

The rapt'ring prospects fly the less'ning lawn,

And Nature seems to mourn the dying view.

Self-sprighted Fear creeps silent thro' the gloom, Starts at the rust'ling leaf, and rolls his eyes; Aghast with horror, when he views the tomb, With every torment of a hell he flies.

The bubbling brooks in plaintive murmurs roll,
The bird of omen, with incessant scream,
To melancholy thoughts awakes the soul,
And lulls the mind to contemplation's dream.

A dreary stillness broods o'er all the vale,
The clouded moon emits a feeble glare;
Joyless I seek the darkling hill and dale,
Where'er I wander sorrow still is there.

THE PROPHECY.'

"When times are at the worst they will certainly mend.”

I.

THIS truth of old was Sorrow's friend,
"Times at the worst will surely mend;"

1 The Prophecy is in the style of Swift's minor pieces, and appears to be the genuine effusion of that enthusiastic love of liberty, which, in tumultuous times, generally takes possession of young and sanguine dispositions.-DR. Gregory.

The difficulty's then to know,
How long Oppression's clock can go;
When Britain's sons may cease to sigh,
And hope that their redemption's nigh.

II.

When Vice exalted takes the lead,
And Vengeance hangs but by a thread;
Gay peeresses turn'd out o' doors;
Whoremasters peers, and sons of whores;
Look up, ye Britains! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.

III.

When vile Corruption's brazen face,
At council-board shall take her place,
And lords-commissioners resort,
To welcome her at Britain's court;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.

IV.

See Pension's harbour large and clear,
Defended by St. Stephen's pier!
The entrance safe, by Current led,
Tiding round G-'s jetty head;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.

V.

When Civil Power shall snore at ease,
While soldiers fire-to keep the peace;
When murders sanctuary find,

And petticoats can Justice blind;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.

VI.

Commerce o'er Bondage will prevail, Free as the wind, that fills her sail. When she complains of vile restraint, And Power is deaf to her complaint; Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh, For your redemption draweth nigh.

VII.

When raw projectors shall begin, Oppression's hedge to keep her in ; She in disdain will take her flight, And bid the Gotham fools good-night; Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh, For your redemption draweth nigh.

VIII.

When tax is laid, to save debate,
By prudent ministers of state;
And, what the people did not give,
Is levied by prerogative;