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Thread: A poem a day

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    Bivouac Of The Dead
    By Theodore O'Hara
    (Written in memory of the Kentucky troops killed in the Mexican War - 1847)

    Portions Of This Haunting Poem Are Inscribed On Placards
    Throughout Arlington, As Well as On
    The McClellan Gate There


    Bivouac Of The Dead


    The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
    The soldier's last tattoo;
    No more on Life's parade shall meet
    That brave and fallen few.
    On fame's eternal camping ground
    Their silent tents to spread,
    And glory guards, with solemn round
    The bivouac of the dead.

    No rumor of the foe's advance
    Now swells upon the wind;
    Nor troubled thought at midnight haunts
    Of loved ones left behind;
    No vision of the morrow's strife
    The warrior's dreams alarms;
    No braying horn or screaming fife
    At dawn shall call to arms.

    Their shriveled swords are red with rust,
    Their plumed heads are bowed,
    Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
    Is now their martial shroud.
    And plenteous funeral tears have washed
    The red stains from each brow,
    And the proud forms, by battle gashed
    Are free from anguish now.

    The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
    The bugle's stirring blast,
    The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
    The din and shout, are past;
    Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal
    Shall thrill with fierce delight
    Those breasts that nevermore may feel
    The rapture of the fight.

    Like the fierce Northern hurricane
    That sweeps the great plateau,
    Flushed with triumph, yet to gain,
    Come down the serried foe,
    Who heard the thunder of the fray
    Break o'er the field beneath,
    Knew the watchword of the day
    Was "Victory or death!"

    Long had the doubtful conflict raged
    O'er all that stricken plain,
    For never fiercer fight had waged
    The vengeful blood of Spain;
    And still the storm of battle blew,
    Still swelled the glory tide;
    Not long, our stout old Chieftain knew,
    Such odds his strength could bide.

    Twas in that hour his stern command
    Called to a martyr's grave
    The flower of his beloved land,
    The nation's flag to save.
    By rivers of their father's gore
    His first-born laurels grew,
    And well he deemed the sons would pour
    Their lives for glory too.

    For many a mother's breath has swept
    O'er Angostura's plain --
    And long the pitying sky has wept
    Above its moldered slain.
    The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,
    Or shepherd's pensive lay,
    Alone awakes each sullen height
    That frowned o'er that dread fray.

    Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground
    Ye must not slumber there,
    Where stranger steps and tongues resound
    Along the heedless air.
    Your own proud land's heroic soil
    Shall be your fitter grave;
    She claims from war his richest spoil --
    The ashes of her brave.

    Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
    Far from the gory field,
    Borne to a Spartan mother's breast
    On many a bloody shield;
    The sunshine of their native sky
    Smiles sadly on them here,
    And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
    The heroes sepulcher.

    Rest on embalmed and sainted dead!
    Dear as the blood ye gave;
    No impious footstep here shall tread
    The herbage of your grave;
    Nor shall your glory be forgot
    While Fame her record keeps,
    For honor points the hallowed spot
    Where valor proudly sleeps.

    Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
    In deathless song shall tell,
    When many a vanquished ago has flown,
    The story how ye fell;
    Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
    Nor time's remorseless doom,
    Can dim one ray of glory's light
    That gilds your deathless tomb.


    Poet pens monument with 'Bivouac of Dead'

    Kentucky native Theodore O'Hara found adventure and everlasting fame. A lawyer, journalist and soldier, O'Hara wrote "The Bivouac of the Dead," a poem that is inscribed upon scores of Confederate monuments across the South.

    Although written to honor Kentuckians slain during the Mexican War, the poem was commonly used to remember veterans of the Civil War. Scores of obituaries in Confederate Veteran magazine refer to soldiers who have joined their comrades at the "bivouac of the dead."

    Despite the fact that O'Hara served the Confederacy, both sides used his verse to commemorate their slain companions. Even the gateway to Arlington National Cemetery bears an inscription from O'Hara's most noted poem.

    O'Hara was born in Danville, Kentucky, on February 11, 1820, the son of a prominent local teacher. lthough the family eventually relocated to Frankfort, Kentucky, O'Hara returned to Danville to attend Centre College, where he was a classmate of future U.S. Vice President and Confederate Secretary of War John C. Breckinridge's. Before graduation, however, O'Hara left Centre to attend St. Joseph's College in nearby Bardstown, graduating in 1839. The future poet then studied law and, in 1842, was admitted to the bar.

    Three years later, O'Hara moved to Washington, where he secured a position at the U.S. Treasury Department. His adventurous spirit did not let him stay in Washington long. When war was declared on Mexico in May 1846, O'Hara quickly responded to the call for troops. Within a month, he was appointed captain and assistant quartermaster for the Kentucky volunteers. Because of gallantry displayed during the conflict, he was promoted to brevet major.

    By 1847, O'Hara had returned from Mexico and was again living in central Kentucky. That was the year in which his famous poem was heard. In February, scores of Kentuckians were slain at the Battle of Buena Vista. Josiah Gregg of Louisville, a Kentucky volunteer at the battle, wrote to the Louisville Journal, "The principal attack of the enemy was directed upon our left, which was defended by the 2nd regiment of Kentucky infantry, and second and third of Indiana, supported by the Kentucky and Arkansas cavalry."

    Gregg added: "The firmness and bravery of the Kentucky regiment, and the third Indiana, have been particularly lauded. But they suffered greatly, as well in officers as privates." When the smoke cleared, among the dead was Henry Clay Jr., son of the famous Kentucky compromiser. When many of these Kentuckians were buried at the Frankfort cemetery, throngs attended the solemn occasion. The principal speaker, young lawyer John C. Breckinridge, spoke for nearly an hour. After Breckinridge's remarks, O'Hara read "The Bivouac of the Dead," a poem Kentucky historian Thomas D. Clark has termed "a worthy contribution to American Literature." The first two stanzas of the poem are:

    "The muffled drum's sad roll has beat / The soldier's last tattoo! / No more on life's parade shall meet / That brave and fallen few. / On Fame's eternal camping ground / Their silent tents are spread, / And Glory guards, with solemn round, / The bivouac of the dead.

    "Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground! / Ye must not slumber there, / Where stranger steps and tongue resound / Along the headless air; / Your own proud land's heroic soil / Should be your fitter grave: / She claims from war its richest spoil / The ashes of the brave."

    Despite the acclaim he received, O'Hara's nature would not let the young Kentuckian stay confined to the bluegrass. During the summer of 1849, O'Hara began recruiting troops for one of Narciso Lopez's expeditions to annex Cuba.

    Between 1848 and 1851, Lopez attempted four times to wrest Cuba from Spanish domination. Although he had been born in Venezuela and had served as a general in the Spanish army, the hopes of land influenced Lopez and many others to invade the island. Although U.S. policy officially condemned him, the public wholeheartedly endorsed his expeditions. Within several months, he had raised enough troops to lead his own invasion.

    On May 19, 1850, O'Hara led his Kentuckians in several unsuccessful attacks against a Spanish garrison at Cardenas, Cuba, during which O'Hara was severely wounded in the leg. The surviving Kentuckians took O'Hara back to their ship and fled. Although Spanish ships pursued, the crew escaped to Key West.

    Once his wound healed, O'Hara returned to Kentucky, where he became a reporter for the Frankfort Yeoman. In 1852, he left to work at the Louisville Daily Times.

    When the Civil War erupted, he exchanged his pen for a musket and joined the Confederate army. By March 2, 1861, with experience in Mexico and Cuba under his belt, the poet took command of Fort McRee near Pensacola, Fla. After just a few months, he was discharged "as a disgrace to the service" by General Braxton Bragg, who commanded the coast between Pensacola and Mobile. It is probable that Bragg, a strict disciplinarian, loathed O'Hara's adventurous spirit.

    O'Hara was ordered to report to Vicksburg, Mississippi, where he was "detailed for the recruiting service." Despite his previous success in recruiting men for the Cuba expedition, this mission was short-lived. On July 1, he was ordered to report to Richmond to serve as lieutenant colonel of the 12th Alabama Infantry Regiment. He was again transferred, however, before he saw combat with this unit. He went west and secured a position as inspector general on the staff of Kentucky-born Gen. Albert Sidney Johnston.

    O'Hara was present when the beloved general was killed at Shiloh Church in southwestern Tennessee in 1862. Johnston's army had encountered Ulysses S. Grant's Union troops there, and as troops under John C. Breckinridge attacked the Union left, Johnston rode to the front to direct the fighting. As he neared the Union lines, bullets tore Johnston's uniform, and one shot peeled away his boot heel. A staff officer noticed blood running from the heel and asked the commander to take cover. Johnston refused. Moments later, O'Hara saw that Johnston's horse had been shot. O'Hara said, "General, your horse is wounded." Johnston replied, "Yes, and his master, too." Johnston had been shot below the right knee. O'Hara rushed off to find a surgeon and encountered the general's aide-de-camp, who later wrote that O'Hara "conducted me to the spot [where Johnston was lying] and went for a surgeon whom he could not obtain until too late." The bullet had severed an artery, and although a tourniquet might have saved his life, Johnston bled to death on the field.

    Without a command of his own, O'Hara joined the staff of now-General Breckinridge, former vice president of the United States and O'Hara's Centre College classmate. At the December 1862 Battle of Murfreesboro (or Stones River), O'Hara served as his adjutant general.

    On the field, O'Hara's military experience became evident. As the Confederate lines surged ahead, he saw a Federal artillery battery that was prepared to fire upon the Southern troops. Breckinridge dispatched him to find Confederate cannon to counterfire, which O'Hara personally placed. It was obvious that Breckinridge trusted the poet, for O'Hara spent much of the day placing infantry in position and delivering orders for his commander.

    The fighting raged for another day. On January 2, Bragg ordered Breckinridge's command to attack an impregnable Union position on the Confederate right. Breckinridge, who believed the attack to be suicidal, advanced with his 4,500 troops. As the men moved forward, he later wrote, "The quick eye of Colonel O'Hara discovered a force extending considerably beyond our right." Thanks to the poet, the Rebel line was extended. The advance was doomed from the start, however, and the Confederates faced massed fire from 58 artillery pieces. Beaten back, Breckinridge lost nearly 1,700 men.

    O'Hara's disdain for Bragg, first forged when he was removed from Pensacola, was heightened after Murfreesboro. As Bragg always blamed others for his failures, he began scheming against Breckinridge, and O'Hara warned his former classmate that Bragg "is evidently preparing and marshalling all his resources of shallow cunning and foolish chicanery, energized by a ranting hate, to make war upon you & wreak to the utmost his ignoble spite against you." Bragg blamed Breckinridge for not supporting his 1862 Kentucky Campaign (which culminated at the Battle of Perryville), an animosity that lasted for the entire war.

    O'Hara ended his military career in Georgia as a soldier under Gen. Joseph E. Johnston. When the war was over, the poet moved to Columbus, Ga., and then to Alabama, where he became editor of the Mobile Register. O'Hara died from a fever at Guerrytown, Alabama, on June 6, 1867; he was buried at Columbus.

    In 1873, however, the Kentucky state legislature decided that the Kentucky native should be in the bluegrass of his birth. With funding from the legislature, his remains were moved to Frankfort, to rest near the graves of the soldiers who had inspired his famous verse.

    Stuart W. Sanders is director of interpretations at the Perryville Battlefield Preservation Association in Kentucky.
    Should we forget our fallen heroes we will be doomed as a nation. One may despise war and its brutality and deaths but still honor the service, bravery and sacrifice of our sons and daughters that did their duty for this nation and its freedoms.
    Freedoms that come with a very. very heavy cost..... of both blood and treasure...sure.

    I salute all our brave and courageous military both past and present ..

    Sincere Salute To Our Brave, Fallen Heroes

    With dear heart and blood given, sometimes torn
    gallant fallen heroes faithfully sworn.
    From start to finish, so brave one and all
    each with fealty to our nation's call
    As we mourn, let us remember this way,
    Heaven tis their reward on judgement day.
    This day, we honor our brave fallen dead
    death faced, that we may sleep safe in our beds.

    Robert J. Lindley, 5-29-2017


    Note-I am still quite sick but I had to write poem to honor our heroes, this morn..
    Its brevity I apologize for my friends as they deserve far more words but I can only muster these few....
    Last edited by Tyr-Ziu Saxnot; 05-29-2017 at 10:01 AM.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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  3. #617
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    Quote Originally Posted by Tyr-Ziu Saxnot View Post
    Should we forget our fallen heroes we will be doomed as a nation. One may despise war and its brutality and deaths but still honor the service, bravery and sacrifice of our sons and daughters that did their duty for this nation and its freedoms.
    Freedoms that come with a very. very heavy cost..... of both blood and treasure...sure.

    I salute all our brave and courageous military both past and present ..

    Sincere Salute To Our Brave, Fallen Heroes

    With dear heart and blood given, sometimes torn
    gallant fallen heroes faithfully sworn.
    From start to finish, so brave one and all
    each with fealty to our nation's call
    As we mourn, let us remember this way,
    Heaven tis their reward on judgement day.
    This day, we honor our brave fallen dead
    death faced, that we may sleep safe in our beds.

    Robert J. Lindley, 5-29-2017


    Note-I am still quite sick but I had to write poem to honor our heroes, this morn..
    Its brevity I apologize for my friends as they deserve far more words but I can only muster these few....
    Thank you for this excellent and timely post, Robert. And I love the historical not with it.
    Last edited by Russ; 05-29-2017 at 06:48 PM.
    Ecclesiastes 10:2 - A wise man's heart directs him to the right, but a foolish man's heart directs him to the left.
    Wise men don't need advice, and fools won't take it - Ben Franklin
    "It's not how you start, it's how you finish."

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    Of Yellow was the outer Sky

    Nature rarer uses Yellow
    Than another Hue.
    Saves she all of that for Sunsets
    Prodigal of Blue

    Spending Scarlet, like a Woman
    Yellow she affords
    Only scantly and selectly
    Like a Lover's Words.

    Emily Dickinson
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    The Commando Memorial
    ---------------by Archie MacLellan

    The sun shone down upon the snow
    Atop Aonach and the Ben,
    As in the shadows there trained below
    A finest group of fighting men,
    None braver lived is to be said
    Honour flowed throughout their veins,
    Freedom bred, Lord Lovat led
    Their lives to stop dictators' gains.

    They gave it their all for the nation they served
    Their courage maintained foreign parts,
    A Memorial stands proud down in Spean
    Let us all build one more in our hearts.

    With command for to land on the shore at Sword Beach
    On the Sixth Day of June Forty Four,
    A place in our history was now within reach
    The Piper to take them ashore,
    Though danger around him, The Piper gave stand
    He stuck to his task without care,
    His march unrepentant, as if claiming the land
    As ‘Road To The Isles’ filled the air.
    Battle ferocious, the enemy strong
    Sweat mixed with sand mixed with mud,
    Young men unrelenting though battle was long
    The water still flows with their blood.

    They gave it their all for the nation they served
    Their courage maintained foreign parts,
    A Memorial stands proud down in Spean
    Let us all build one more in our hearts.

    Perished did men still young in their years
    The land of our birth lost Her Sons,
    But liveth they on in Remembrance tears
    Liveth on how they silenced the guns,
    Lest we forget the Sacrifice
    In our Bloody Wars were made,
    That Sacrifice that takes us here
    Can never be repaid.

    They gave it their all for the nation they served
    Their courage maintained foreign parts,
    A Memorial stands proud down in Spean
    Let us all build one more in our hearts.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    The Churchwarden and the Apparition: A Fable
    by Thomas Chatterton, age 11

    The night was cold, the wind was high,
    And stars bespangled all the sky;
    Churchwarden Joe had laid him down,
    And slept secure on bed of down;
    But still the pleasing hope of gain,
    That never left his active brain,
    Exposed the churchyard to his view,
    That seat of treasure wholly new.
    “Pull down that cross,” he quickly cried,
    The mason instantly complied:
    When lo! behold, the golden prize
    Appears—joy sparkles in his eyes.
    The door now creaks, the window shakes,
    With sudden fear he starts and wakes;
    Quaking and pale, in eager haste
    His haggard eyes around he cast;
    A ghastly phantom, lean and wan,
    That instant rose, and thus began:
    “Weak wretch—to think to blind my eyes!
    Hypocrisy’s a thin disguise;
    Your humble mien and fawning tongue
    Have oft deceived the old and young.
    On this side now, and now on that,
    The very emblem of the bat:
    Whatever part you take, we know
    ’Tis only interest makes it so,
    And though with sacred zeal you burn,
    Religion’s only for your turn;
    I’m Conscience called!” Joe greatly feared;
    The lightning flashed—it disappeared.

    This poem is, perhaps, average in places for a more mature poet, but quite vivid in others. Again, for a child it is rather remarkable. And I think the perception that the churchwarden saw the churchyard as a "seat of treasure" and his "hope of gain" is remarkable for a child.

    Sly Dick
    by Thomas Chatterton, age 11

    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.
    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 dreams 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.

    This is, indeed, a sly poem for a child to write. Again, it demonstrates considerable perception.





    The HyperTexts

    CHATTERTON


    the best poems of Thomas Chatterton with an intro and two "modernizations" by Michael R. Burch

    Was Thomas Chatterton the greatest child prodigy in the history of poetry and an angelic figure, or was he a dastardly forger and fraud? He has been portrayed as both, sometimes simultaneously. (An interesting aspect of conspiracy theorists is that they are able to believe completely contradictory notions.) That Chatterton was among the most remarkable of child prodigies is hard to dispute, because at age ten he was writing poems that were published, and by his early teens he had taught himself medieval English and was producing poems by a fictitious poet, Thomas Rowley, in the language and style of Chaucer and his contemporaries. The clever young Chatterton taught himself to write in the "ye olde Englische" style, and to use ocher and other chemicals to age the "discovered" manuscripts to make them look like antiques. While his pseudo-medieval compositions were imperfect, in terms of complying with all the complicated rules of that long-ago day, and were eventually exposed as modern work, they enchanted some of the better-known Romantic poets to come―including Blake, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley and Keats―who saw Chatterton not only as one of them, but also as a trailblazer leading other poets back to the wellspring of English poetry. They were inclined to view and portray Chatterton as a rejected genius and a rather angelic, tragic figure. His detractors, however, tended to portray him as a deliberate deceiver, forger and fraud. Today, in a number of biographies and scholarly papers about Chatterton, we see both views superimposed on his boyish image: he is the angelic victim with the long, flowing, curly locks who became the notorious conman. But was Chatterton that notorious, really, or were there perhaps perfectly good and understandable reasons for his deceptions? And didn't other writers of his day do similar things, including Horace Walpole, whose curt dismissal of the younger writer may have led to his suicide at age seventeen?

    I believe there were perfectly good and understandable reasons for Chatterton's deceptions. First, his family was poor, his father died before he was born, he was sent to a charity school, and to improve his lot in life he needed to make money. (And it can be very difficult for adolescents to make money, or to be taken seriously by adults!) Second, Chatterton had limited options. After leaving school he had basically become an indentured servant to a lawyer who allegedly beat him and tore up his poems, even though Chatterton fulfilled all his duties and only wrote poetry when he had no official work to do. Chatterton only escaped this virtual enslavement by threatening to commit suicide, at which point the lawyer let him go. Third, Chatterton came from a lower-class family at a time when England still had a substantially rigid caste system. Even if Chatterton had been older, the landed and monied gentry would have been unlikely to treat him as their peer. For instance, when Walpole learned that Chatterton was "beneath" him in status, although he had previously been enamored with the Rowley poems and later called them works of "masterly genius," his attitude in his letters changed abruptly and he advised the poet to "get a real job" and work on poetry as a hobby. For a poet with Chatterton's abilities and ambitions, the prejudices of his day were apparently a crushing cross to bear. I see no reason to continue to crucify him.

    However, they are other possible reasons for Chatterton pretending to be Rowley. When he fell in love with those illuminated capitals, he may have had a romance of sorts with the elder poets, their language and their work. Perhaps in the beginning he was simply writing poems in a style that he loved and desired to emulate. At times, according to witnesses, he did claim to be the author of the Rowley poems, but it seems the adults refused to take him seriously. So he may have followed the "path of least resistance" and when money was tight and times were dire, perhaps he saw the "medieval" poems as his only―or most likely―salvation.

    But in any case, I believe we must ultimately detach the myth―or even the reality―of Chatterton the "boy genius" and/or "fraud" from our evaluation of his work. In the end, if Chatterton was a poet―and I believe he was―it is the work that really matters: not the myth, not the man (or boy), not our feelings about his life and death, not even his genius even if it can somehow be identified, quantified and measured. There have been other tragic figures who were not necessarily great artists. Abraham Lincoln wrote poetry. His assassination―one of the ultimate tragedies―does not make his poetry better or worse. To determine whether Abraham Lincoln was a great, good, mediocre, bad or terrible poet, we have to consider his poems as poems. And I believe we must do the same with Chatterton's poems, if we are to do them justice, and him. If we determine that Chatterton was a good or great poet as a boy, that does seem rather remarkable. But there is nothing at all remarkable about a boy writing mediocre, bad or terrible poems. I wrote some terrible poems when I was a boy, then tore them all up in frustration. That does not make me a good poet. Nor should writing not-so-good poems and passing them off as someone else's work make Chatterton a legend. But what if his poems were good, or great? In the literary world, that is the question, because that is what determines whether poems live or die, and whether we remember or forget their authors.

    Before we proceed, please allow me to point out that if Chatterton's poems have artistic merit, there really isn't a case to be made against him. If he told the truth and really did find the poems, then he was an honest boy who was very unfairly criminalized. If, on the other hand, he wrote the poems himself, he was not a "forger," but an unusually original artist at a surprisingly young age. But in either case, where is the case against him? I don't see one, myself. But a valid question remains: how good were the poems he wrote, since it seems completely obvious at this stage that he really did write the poems? Great poets praised Chatterton. Presumably, great poets should know good poetry when they read it. So let's take a look ...

    Thomas Chatterton Timeline

    1752 — Thomas Chatterton is born in Bristol, England on November 20, 1752. His father dies before he is born and his family is poor.
    1758 — Up to around age six or seven, young Thomas is considered "slow," even a "dunce" and a "fool." But then he discovers a manuscript with illuminated capitals; he becomes enraptured, his mother teaches him to read using these new objects of rapture, and he becomes a voracious devourer of books.
    1760 — Around age eight, Chatterton begins attending Colston's Hospital, a Bristol charity-school where "the pupils were tonsured like monks and suspected leanings towards religious non-conformity were punishable by expulsion." The students were forced to wear blue gowns; Chatterton has been called a "blue-coat boy." At Colston's he meets Thomas Phillips, an usher whose verses have been published in Felix Farley's Bristol Journal; Chatterton will soon follow in his footsteps.
    1762 — Around age ten, Chatterton writes his first known poem, "On the Last Epiphany, or, Christ Coming to Judgment." It appears in the Bristol Journal on Jan. 8, 1763. Another early poem "The Churchwarden and the Apparition, A Fable" also appears in the Bristol Journal.
    1763 — Around age eleven, Chatterton writes "A Hymn for Christmas Day," "Apostate Will" and "Sly Dick."
    1764 — Around age twelve, Chatterton writes a medieval pastoral eclogue titled "Elinoure and Juga" (the only Rowley poem published during Chatterton's lifetime).
    1767 — Around age fourteen, Chatterton becomes a scrivener (clerk) to a Bristol attorney, but is unpaid except for room and board. When his employer catches Chatterton writing poetry, he tears it up! Chatterton offers "evidence" of his family's "noble pedigree" to Henry Burgum, a Bristol businessman, who pays him five shillings. Chatterton then gives Burgum a medieval version of his poem "Romance of the Knight," telling Burgum that it was written by an ancestor of Burgum's who was "an ornament of the age." Chatterton also provides Burgum with a version of the poem "modernized" by Chatterton. He ends up giving a number of his Rowley poems to Burgum and his associate George Calcott.
    1768 — Around age fifteen, Chatterton offers some of his Rowley poems to William Barrett, the author of History of Bristol (1789), who would include the Rowley poems as authentic. Chatterton writing as "Dunelmus Bristoliensis" becomes a frequent contributor to the Bristol Journal, and creates excitement with his "discovery" of the account of ceremonies related to the opening of an ancient Bristol bridge (providentially, just at the time of the dedication of a new bridge!).
    1769 — Now sixteen, Chatterton offers some of his Rowley writings to Horace Walpole, who declines to help the younger writer. Chatterton writes a bitter satirical poem in reply, "To Horace Walpole." (Walpole would later say of Chatterton: "I do not believe there ever existed so masterly a genius.") The Rowley poem "Elinoure and Juga" is published by Town and Country Magazine (May 1769).
    1770 — In the spring of 1770, Chatterton writes a letter in which he threatens to commit suicide, perhaps as a ruse to end his unpaid employment. He is let go by the lawyer, then moves to London hoping to earn a living as a writer, arriving on April 25th. Despite his youth, over a period of four months Chatterton appears in eleven of the principal publications then in circulation: the Middlesex Journal, the Court and City Journal, the Political Register, the London Museum, Town and Country, the Christian, the Universal, the Gospel, the London, the Lady's, and the Freeholder's magazines. He even writes a burletta, "The Revenge," to be sung and performed in Marylebone Gardens. But some of the publishers don't pay him, others are tardy, one dies, two end up in prison, and he is slowly starving to death, too proud to accept offers of meals from his landlady. By August he is hoping to go abroad as a surgeon's assistant on an African trader, although he lacks training. On the last day of his life, August 24th, his landlady notes that he has not eaten for two or three days and looks starved. Finally, Chatterton commits suicide by drinking arsenic at age seventeen, three months short of his eighteenth birthday. He is buried in a pauper's grave as "William Chatterton, the Poet." While the rest of the literary world either ignored Chatterton or treated him as a fraud, the great Romantic poets to come would hail him as a true poet, a genius, and the first of their tribe.

    If your reading time is limited, or you'd like to have some idea where to start, here in my opinion, for whatever it's worth, are the best poems of Thomas Chatterton:

    The Top Ten Poems of Thomas Chatterton (in one person's opinion)

    "Song from Ζlla: Under the Willow Tree" or "Minstrel's Song" (a Rowley poem with an accompanying "modernization")
    "An Excellent Ballad of Charity" (a Rowley poem with an accompanying "modernization")
    "Elegy, Written At Stanton-Drew"
    "Elegy on the Death of Mr. Phillips" (written for the Colston's usher who befriended Chatterton and may have been his mentor)
    "The Resignation"
    "To Horace Walpole"
    "Elinoure and Juga" (perhaps the first Rowley poem, written around age 12)
    "The ROMANCE of the KNIGHT" (a poem Chatterton wrote around age 14 and modernized himself)
    "A Hymn for Christmas Day," "The Gouler's Requiem", "Apostate Will" and "Sly Dick" (all written around age 11-12)

    All the poems listed above appear on this page; two of the Rowley poems appear side-by-side with my "translations" or "modernizations." Other poems by Chatterton were written in more modern English and can easily be read and understood in their original forms. There has been speculation that Chatterton wrote his Rowley poems in modern English, then "backdated" them using glossaries of archaic words. If so, it seems the originals may have been lost or destroyed.

    Song from Ζlla: Under the Willow Tree, or, Minstrel's Song
    by Thomas Chatterton, age 17 or younger
    Modernization/Translation by Michael R. Burch

    MYNSTRELLES SONGE MINSTREL'S SONG

    O! synge untoe mie roundelaie, O! sing unto my roundelay, roundelay=poem/song with a refrain
    O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee, O! drop the briny tear with me,
    Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie, Dance no more at holy-day, holidays were originally "holy days"
    Lycke a reynynge ryver bee; Like a running river be:
    Mie love ys dedde, My love is dead,
    Gon to hys death-bedde, Gone to his death-bed
    Al under the wyllowe tree. All under the willow-tree. a "weeping" willow suggests sorrow

    Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte, Black his crown as the winter night, cryne=crown/hair/locks
    Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe, White his flesh as the summer snow rode=complexion/skin/flesh
    Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte, Red his face as the morning light,
    Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe; Cold he lies in the grave below:
    Mie love ys dedde, My love is dead,
    Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Gone to his death-bed
    Al under the wyllowe tree. All under the willow-tree.

    Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note, Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, throstle=song thrush
    Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee, Quick in dance as thought can be,
    Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote, Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; tabor=portable drum
    O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree: O! he lies by the willow-tree!
    Mie love ys dedde, My love is dead,
    Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Gone to his death-bed
    Al under the wyllowe tree. All under the willow-tree.

    Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, Hark! the raven flaps his wing
    In the briered delle belowe; In the briar'd dell below;
    Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
    To the nyghte-mares as heie goe; To the nightmares, as they go:
    Mie love ys dedde, My love is dead,
    Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Gone to his death-bed
    Al under the wyllowe tree. All under the willow-tree.

    See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; See! the white moon shines on high;
    Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude; Whiter is my true-love's shroud:
    Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie, Whiter than the morning sky,
    Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude: Whiter than the evening cloud:
    Mie love ys dedde, My love is dead,
    Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Gone to his death-bed
    Al under the wyllowe tree. All under the willow-tree.

    Heere, uponne mie true loves grave, Here upon my true-love's grave
    Schalle the baren fleurs be layde. Shall the barren flowers be laid;
    Nee one hallie Seyncte to save Not one holy saint to save
    Al the celness of a mayde. All the coldness of a maid:
    Mie love ys dedde, My love is dead,
    Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Gone to his death-bed
    Al under the wyllowe tree. All under the willow-tree.

    Wythe mie hondes I'lle dente the brieres With my hands I'll frame the briars dent=fasten/gird/frame
    Rounde his hallie corse to gre, Round his holy corpse to grow: corse=corpse; gre=grow
    Ouphante fairie, lyghte youre fyres, Elf and fairy, light your fires, ouph=elf; "Elf and Fairy"
    Heere mie boddie stylle schalle bee. Here my body, stilled, shall go:
    Mie love ys dedde, My love is dead,
    Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Gone to his death-bed
    Al under the wyllowe tree. All under the willow-tree.

    Comme, wythe acorne-coppe & thorne, Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
    Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie; Drain my heartθs blood away;
    Lyfe & all yttes goode I scorne, Life and all its good I scorn,
    Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie. Dance by night, or feast by day:
    Mie love ys dedde, My love is dead,
    Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Gone to his death-bed
    Al under the wyllowe tree. All under the willow-tree.

    Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes Water witches, crowned with plaits,
    Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde. Bear me to your lethal tide.
    I die; I comme; mie true love waytes. I die; I come; my true love waits.
    Thos the damselle spake, and dyed. Thus the damsel spoke, and died.

    The song above is, in my opinion, competitive with Shakespeare's songs in his plays, and may be the best of Thomas Chatterton's Rowley poems. It seems rather obvious that this song was written in modern English, then "backdated." One wonders whether Chatterton wrote it in response to Shakespeare's "Under the Greenwood Tree." The greenwood tree or evergreen is a symbol of immortality. The "weeping willow" is a symbol of sorrow, and the greatest human sorrow is that of mortality and the separations caused by death. If Chatterton wrote his song as a refutation of Shakespeare's, I think he did a damn good job. But it's a splendid song in its own right.

    The Resignation
    by Thomas Chatterton, age unknown

    O God, whose thunder shakes the sky,
    Whose eye this atom globe surveys,
    To thee, my only rock, I fly,
    Thy mercy in thy justice praise.

    The mystic mazes of thy will,
    The shadows of celestial light,
    Are past the pow'r of human skill,―
    But what th' Eternal acts is right.

    O teach me in the trying hour,
    When anguish swells the dewy tear,
    To still my sorrows, own thy pow'r,
    Thy goodness love, thy justice fear.

    If in this bosom aught but Thee
    Encroaching sought a boundless sway,
    Omniscience could the danger see,
    And Mercy look the cause away.

    Then why, my soul, dost thou complain?
    Why drooping seek the dark recess?
    Shake off the melancholy chain.
    For God created all to bless.

    But ah! my breast is human still;
    The rising sigh, the falling tear,
    My languid vitals' feeble rill,
    The sickness of my soul declare.

    But yet, with fortitude resigned,
    I'll thank th' inflicter of the blow;
    Forbid the sigh, compose my mind,
    Nor let the gush of mis'ry flow.

    The gloomy mantle of the night,
    Which on my sinking spirit steals,
    Will vanish at the morning light,
    Which God, my East, my sun reveals.

    This is a powerful, moving poem. One can imagine hearing the influences of Charles Wesley in the first stanza, George Herbert in the fifth, John Donne in the eighth (I believe Donne called God his "East" in one of his holy sonnets). But Chatterton was not merely imitating other poets; he was clearly speaking for himself in what one might call a "high romantic style" that has been rivaled by few other poets. Phrases like "dewy tear," "languid vitals' feeble rill," "gush of mis'ry" and the "drooping" soul seem to anticipate (or perhaps pave the way for) the work of emotive poets like Shelley and Keats to come. I would hazard that this poem rivals the best of Donne's holy sonnets, and is more powerful and moving than the best poems in this genre by Herbert and Henry Vaughn. I don't think we can compare Chatterton to Gerard Manley Hopkins directly because their styles were so different, but I am inclined to say that this poem compares favorably with the best poetic expressions of faith in the English language.

    Elegy, Written At Stanton-Drew
    by Thomas Chatterton, probably age 16 or earlier

    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 misery now;
    Upon her lovely brow
    Her lovelier soul she wore.
    Soft as the evening gale
    When breathing perfumes through the rose-hedged vale,
    She was my joy, my happiness refined.
    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 Maria, haste,
    Whilst my languid spirits waste;
    When from this my prison free,
    Catch my soul, it flies to thee;
    Death had doubly armed his dart,
    In piercing thee, it pierced my heart.

    This may be the best of Chatterton's modern English love poems. Stanton Drew is eight miles south of Bristol, where Chatterton lived until the last year of his life. It is the site of a standing stone circle, similar to the one at Stonehenge, with the second-largest standing stones in England. It is thought that such sites were used for human sacrifices, to which Chatterton alludes in the poem.

    Below, the original poem appears on the left. My translation/modernization on the right can be used as a reference or study guide. If you prefer not to wrestle with the medieval spellings, you can start with the translation and refer back to the original poem as you prefer. Please keep in mind that translating or "modernizing" such a poem is far from a perfect science. Concessions must be made to meter, if the poem is to remain rhythmic; this means sometimes adding a word here and deleting a word there, hopefully without altering the poet's intended meaning. Chatterton is difficult to interpret, in spots, because it seems likely that he coined words to suit his meter and purpose. While there is nothing "wrong" with that (Shakespeare did the same), it is not always completely obvious what Chatterton meant. I have tried to remain faithful to what I interpret as his "larger" meaning. ― Michael R. Burch

    An Excelente Balade of Charitie An Excellent Ballad of Charity
    by Thomas Chatterton, age 17 by Thomas Chatterton, age 17
    Original Version Modernization/Translation by Michael R. Burch

    In Virgynλ the sweltrie sun gan sheene, In Virgynλ the swelt'ring sun grew keen,
    And hotte upon the mees did caste his raie; Then hot upon the meadows cast his ray;
    The apple rodded from its palie greene, The apple ruddied from its pallid green
    And the mole peare did bende the leafy spraie; And the fat pear did bend its leafy spray;
    The peede chelandri sunge the livelong daie; The pied goldfinches sang the livelong day;
    ’Twas nowe the pride, the manhode of the yeare, 'Twas now the pride, the manhood of the year,
    And eke the grounde was dighte in its moste And the ground was mantled in fine green cashmere.
    defte aumere.

    The sun was glemeing in the midde of daie, The sun was gleaming in the bright mid-day,
    Deadde still the aire, and eke the welken blue, Dead-still the air, and likewise the heavens blue,
    When from the sea arist in drear arraie When from the sea arose, in drear array,
    A hepe of cloudes of sable sullen hue, A heap of clouds of sullen sable hue,
    The which full fast unto the woodlande drewe, Which full and fast unto the woodlands drew,
    Hiltring attenes the sunnis fetive face, Hiding at once the sun's fair festive face,
    And the blacke tempeste swolne and gatherd As the black tempest swelled and gathered up apace.
    up apace.

    Beneathe an holme, faste by a pathwaie side, Beneath a holly tree, by a pathway's side,
    Which dide unto Seyncte Godwine’s covent lede, Which did unto Saint Godwin's convent lead,
    A hapless pilgrim moneynge did abide. A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide.
    Pore in his newe, ungentle in his weede, Poor in his sight, ungentle in his weed,
    Longe bretful of the miseries of neede, Long brimful of the miseries of need,
    Where from the hail-stone coulde the almer flie? Where from the hailstones could the beggar fly?
    He had no housen theere, ne anie covent nie. He had no shelter there, nor any convent nigh.

    Look in his glommed face, his sprighte there scanne; Look in his gloomy face; his sprite there scan;
    Howe woe-be-gone, how withered, forwynd, deade! How woebegone, how withered, dried-up, dead!
    Haste to thie church-glebe-house, asshrewed manne! Haste to thy parsonage, accursθd man!
    Haste to thie kiste, thie onlie dortoure bedde. Haste to thy crypt, thy only restful bed.
    Cale, as the claie whiche will gre on thie hedde, Cold, as the clay which will grow on thy head,
    Is Charitie and Love aminge highe elves; Is Charity and Love among high elves;
    Knightis and Barons live for pleasure and themselves. Knights and Barons live for pleasure and themselves.

    The gatherd storme is rype; the bigge drops falle; The gathered storm is ripe; the huge drops fall;
    The forswat meadowes smethe, and drenche the raine; The sunburnt meadows smoke and drink the rain;
    The comyng ghastness do the cattle pall, The coming aghastness makes the cattle pale;
    And the full flockes are drivynge ore the plaine; And the full flocks are driving o'er the plain;
    Dashde from the cloudes the waters flott againe; Dashed from the clouds, the waters float again;
    The welkin opes; the yellow levynne flies; The heavens gape; the yellow lightning flies;
    And the hot fierie smothe in the wide lowings dies. And the hot fiery steam in the wide flamepot dies.

    Liste! now the thunder’s rattling clymmynge sound Hark! now the thunder's rattling, clamoring sound
    Cheves slowlie on, and then embollen clangs, Heaves slowly on, and then enswollen clangs,
    Shakes the hie spyre, and losst, dispended, drown’d, Shakes the high spire, and lost, dispended, drown'd,
    Still on the gallard eare of terroure hanges; Still on the coward ear of terror hangs;
    The windes are up; the lofty elmen swanges; The winds are up; the lofty elm-tree swings;
    Again the levynne and the thunder poures, Again the lightning―then the thunder pours,
    And the full cloudes are braste attenes in stonen And the full clouds are burst at once in stormy showers.
    showers.

    Spurreynge his palfrie oere the watrie plaine, Spurring his palfrey o'er the watery plain,
    The Abbote of Seyncte Godwynes convente came; The Abbot of Saint Godwin's convent came;
    His chapournette was drented with the reine, His chapournette was drenchθd with the rain,
    And his pencte gyrdle met with mickle shame; And his pinched girdle met with enormous shame;
    He aynewarde tolde his bederoll at the same; He cursing backwards gave his hymns the same;
    The storme encreasen, and he drew aside, The storm increasing, and he drew aside
    With the mist almes craver neere to the holme to bide. With the poor alms-craver, near the holly tree to bide.

    His cope was all of Lyncolne clothe so fyne, His cape was all of Lincoln-cloth so fine,
    With a gold button fasten’d neere his chynne; With a gold button fasten'd near his chin;
    His autremete was edged with golden twynne, His ermine robe was edged with golden twine,
    And his shoone pyke a loverds mighte have binne; And his high-heeled shoes a Baron's might have been;
    Full well it shewn he thoughten coste no sinne: Full well it proved he considered cost no sin;
    The trammels of the palfrye pleasde his sighte, The trammels of the palfrey pleased his sight
    For the horse-millanare his head with roses dighte. For the horse-milliner loved rosy ribbons bright.

    “An almes, sir prieste!” the droppynge pilgrim saide, "An alms, Sir Priest!" the drooping pilgrim said,
    “O! let me waite within your covente dore, "Oh, let me wait within your convent door,
    Till the sunne sheneth hie above our heade, Till the sun shineth high above our head,
    And the loude tempeste of the aire is oer; And the loud tempest of the air is o'er;
    Helpless and ould am I alas! and poor; Helpless and old am I, alas!, and poor;
    No house, ne friend, ne moneie in my pouche; No house, no friend, no money in my purse;
    All yatte I call my owne is this my silver crouche.” All that I call my own is this―my silver cross.

    “Varlet,” replyd the Abbatte, “cease your dinne; "Varlet," replied the Abbott, "cease your din;
    This is no season almes and prayers to give; This is no season alms and prayers to give;
    Mie porter never lets a faitour in; My porter never lets a beggar in;
    None touch mie rynge who not in honour live.” None touch my ring who in dishonor live."
    And now the sonne with the blacke cloudes did stryve, And now the sun with the blackened clouds did strive,
    And shettynge on the grounde his glairie raie, And shed upon the ground his glaring ray;
    The Abbatte spurrde his steede, and eftsoones roadde The Abbot spurred his steed, and swiftly rode away.
    awaie.

    Once moe the skie was blacke, the thunder rolde; Once more the sky grew black; the thunder rolled;
    Faste reyneynge oer the plaine a prieste was seen; Fast running o'er the plain a priest was seen;
    Ne dighte full proude, ne buttoned up in golde; Not full of pride, not buttoned up in gold;
    His cope and jape were graie, and eke were clene; His cape and jape were gray, and also clean;
    A Limitoure he was of order seene; A Limitour he was, his order serene;
    And from the pathwaie side then turned hee, And from the pathway side he turned to see
    Where the pore almer laie binethe the holmen tree. Where the poor almer lay beneath the holly tree.

    “An almes, sir priest!” the droppynge pilgrim sayde, "An alms, Sir Priest!" the drooping pilgrim said,
    “For sweete Seyncte Marie and your order sake.” "For sweet Saint Mary and your order's sake."
    The Limitoure then loosen’d his pouche threade, The Limitour then loosen'd his purse's thread,
    And did thereoute a groate of silver take; And from it did a groat of silver take;
    The mister pilgrim dyd for halline shake. The needy pilgrim did for happiness shake.
    “Here take this silver, it maie eathe thie care; "Here, take this silver, it may ease thy care;
    We are Goddes stewards all, nete of oure owne we bare. "We are God's stewards all, naught of our own we bear."

    “But ah! unhailie pilgrim, lerne of me, "But ah! unhappy pilgrim, learn of me,
    Scathe anie give a rentrolle to their Lorde. Scarce any give a rentroll to their Lord.
    Here take my semecope, thou arte bare I see; Here, take my cloak, as thou are bare, I see;
    Tis thyne; the Seynctes will give me mie rewarde.” 'Tis thine; the Saints will give me my reward."
    He left the pilgrim, and his waie aborde. He left the pilgrim, went his way abroad.
    Virgynne and hallie Seyncte, who sitte yn gloure, Virgin and happy Saints, in glory showered,
    Or give the mittee will, or give the gode man power. Let the mighty bend, or the good man be empowered!

    TRANSLATOR'S NOTES: It is possible that some words used by Chatterton were his own coinages; some of them apparently cannot be found in other medieval literature. In a few places I have used similar-sounding words that seem to not overly disturb the meaning of the poem, which are not "exact matches" for the original poem's words. ― Michael R. Burch

    Bristol
    by Thomas Chatterton, age 16

    The Muses have no Credit here; and Fame
    Confines itself to the mercantile name.
    Bristol may keep her prudent maxims still;
    I scorn her Prudence, and I ever will.
    Since all my vices magnify'd are here,
    She cannot paint me worse than I appear.
    When raving in the lunacy of ink,
    I catch the Pen and publish what I think.

    The lines above were apparently written by Chatterton to explain to his literate friends why he chose to leave Bristol for London at age sixteen.

    Sentiment
    by Thomas Chatterton, age 17

    Since we can die but once, what matters it,
    If rope or garter, poison, pistol, sword,
    Slow-wasting sickness, or the sudden burst
    Of valve arterial in the noble parts,
    Curtail the miseries of human life?
    Though varied is the cause, the effect's the same:
    All to one common dissolution tends.

    The lines above apparently reflect Chatterton's views on the manner of a human being's passing. He also wrote that he did not consider suicide to be a crime, at a time when it was considered a "mortal sin" by church, state and courts. For instance, Hume's Essay on Suicide was not published until after his death in 1777, and seven years after Chatterton's. When the essay was finally published, it was almost immediately suppressed. The idea that human beings had a right to end their lives was still very much ahead of its time. Unsuccessful suicides would continue to face public scorn, and either prison or the gallows.

    The Methodist
    by Thomas Chatterton, age 17

    Says Tom to Jack, 'tis very odd,
    These representatives of God,
    In color, way of life and evil,
    Should be so very like the devil.

    Toward the end of his life, Chatterton wrote that he was "no Christian." He seemed to especially dislike the hypocrisy and lack of compassion and good works that he saw in organized religion and its representatives, as the lines above demonstrate.

    On The Last Epiphany (or, Christ Coming To Judgment)
    by Thomas Chatterton, age 10

    Behold! just coming from above,
    The judge, with majesty and love!
    The sky divides, and rolls away,
    T'admit him through the realms of day!
    The sun, astonished, hides its face,
    The moon and stars with wonder gaze
    At Jesu's bright superior rays!
    Dread lightnings flash, and thunders roar,
    And shake the earth and briny shore;
    The trumpet sounds at heaven's command,
    And pierceth through the sea and land;
    The dead in each now hear the voice,
    The sinners fear and saints rejoice;
    For now the awful hour is come,
    When every tenant of the tomb
    Must rise, and take his everlasting doom.

    As far as I have been able to determine, this is the first poem written by Thomas Chatterton, when he was around age ten, if not younger. While I wouldn't call the poem a masterpiece, it does exhibit good meter, rhyme, imagery and drama (especially in the last three lines). It is obviously a remarkable poem for a child to have written. "The sun, astonished, hides its face" is an arresting image. "Dread lightnings flash, and thunders roar" is another.

    A Hymn For Christmas Day
    by Thomas Chatterton, age 11

    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!

    This is a fine hymn, one worthy of a seasoned composer. The first stanza is especially good, and the entire hymn is commendable. That a child wrote it makes it a wonder.

    The Churchwarden and the Apparition: A Fable
    by Thomas Chatterton, age 11

    The night was cold, the wind was high,
    And stars bespangled all the sky;
    Churchwarden Joe had laid him down,
    And slept secure on bed of down;
    But still the pleasing hope of gain,
    That never left his active brain,
    Exposed the churchyard to his view,
    That seat of treasure wholly new.
    “Pull down that cross,” he quickly cried,
    The mason instantly complied:
    When lo! behold, the golden prize
    Appears—joy sparkles in his eyes.
    The door now creaks, the window shakes,
    With sudden fear he starts and wakes;
    Quaking and pale, in eager haste
    His haggard eyes around he cast;
    A ghastly phantom, lean and wan,
    That instant rose, and thus began:
    “Weak wretch—to think to blind my eyes!
    Hypocrisy’s a thin disguise;
    Your humble mien and fawning tongue
    Have oft deceived the old and young.
    On this side now, and now on that,
    The very emblem of the bat:
    Whatever part you take, we know
    ’Tis only interest makes it so,
    And though with sacred zeal you burn,
    Religion’s only for your turn;
    I’m Conscience called!” Joe greatly feared;
    The lightning flashed—it disappeared.

    This poem is, perhaps, average in places for a more mature poet, but quite vivid in others. Again, for a child it is rather remarkable. And I think the perception that the churchwarden saw the churchyard as a "seat of treasure" and his "hope of gain" is remarkable for a child.

    Sly Dick
    by Thomas Chatterton, age 11

    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.
    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 dreams 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.

    This is, indeed, a sly poem for a child to write. Again, it demonstrates considerable perception.

    Apostate Will
    by Thomas Chatterton, age 11

    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 strait to Wesley he repairs,
    And puts on grave and solemn airs;
    Then thus the pious man addressed.
    Good sir, I think your doctrine best;
    Your servant will a Wesley be,
    Therefore the principles teach me.
    The preacher then instructions gave.
    How he in this world should behave;
    He hears, assents, and gives a nod,
    Says every word's the word of God,
    Then lifting his dissembling eyes,
    How blessed is the sect! he cries;
    Nor Bingham, Young, nor Stillingfleet,
    Shall make me from this sect retreat.
    He then his circumstances declared,
    How hardly with him matters fared,
    Begg'd him next morning for to make
    A small collection for his sake.
    The preacher said, Do not repine,
    The whole collection shall be thine.
    With looks demure and cringing bows,
    About his business strait he goes.
    His outward acts were grave and prim,
    The methodist appear'd in him.
    But, be his outward what it will,
    His heart was an apostate's still.
    He'd oft profess an hallow'd flame,
    And every where preach'd Wesley's name;
    He was a preacher, and what not,
    As long as money could be got;
    He'd oft profess, with holy fire.
    The labourer's worthy of his hire.
    It happen'd once upon a time,
    When all his works were in their prime,
    A noble place appear'd in view;
    Then ______ to the methodists, adieu.
    A methodist no more he'll be,
    The protestants serve best for he.
    Then to the curate strait he ran,
    And thus address'd the rev'rend man:
    I was a methodist, tis true;
    With penitence I turn to you.
    O that it were your bounteous will
    That I the vacant place might fill!
    With justice I'd myself acquit,
    Do every thing that's right and fit.
    The curate straitway gave consent―
    To take the place he quickly went.
    Accordingly he took the place,
    And keeps it with dissembled grace.

    This is another sly, very perceptive poem. Lines like: "Then lifting his dissembling eyes, How blessed is the sect! he cries" are worthy of a mature satirist. Again, we have a damn good poem for a mature poet, a wonder for a child.

    Elinoure and Juga
    by Thomas Chatterton, age 12
    Published in Town and Country Magazine (May 1769) pp 273-74.

    Onne Ruddeborne bank twa pynynge maydens sate,
    Theire teares faste dryppeyn to the waterre cleere;
    Echone bementynge for her absente mate,
    Who atte Seyncte Albonns shouke the morthynge speare.
    The nottebrowne Ellynor to Juga fayre,
    Dydde speke acroole, with languyshmente of eyne,
    Lyke droppes of pearlie dew, lemed the quyvrynge brine.

    ELINOURE.
    O gentle Juga! hear mie dernie plainte,
    To fyghte for Yorke mie love is dyght in stele;
    O mai ne sanguen steine the whyte rose peyncte;
    Maie good Seyncte Cuthberte watch Syrre Robynne wele.
    Moke moe thanne deathe in phantasie I feelle;
    See! see! upon the grounde he bleedynge lies!
    Inhild some joice of life, or else my deare love dies.

    JUGA.
    Systers in sorrowe on thys daise-ey'd banke,
    Where melancholych broods we wylle lamente:
    Be wette with mornynge dewe and evene danke;
    Lyche levynde okes in eche the oder bente,
    Or lyke forletten halles of merriemente,
    Whose gastlie mitches holde the traine of fryghte,
    Where lethale ravens bark, and owlets wake the nyghte.

    No mo the miskynette shalle wake the morne,
    The minstrelle daunce, good cheere, and morryce plaie;
    No mo the amblynge palfrie and the horne,
    Shall from the lessel rouze the foxe awaie:
    I'll seke the forest alle the lyve-longe daie:
    Alle nete amenge the gravde chirche glebe wyll go,
    And to the passante spryghtes lecture mie tale of woe.

    Whan mokie cloudes do hange upon the leme,
    Of leden moon ynn sylver mantels dyghte:
    The tryppeynge faeries weve the golden dreme,
    Of selyness, whyche flyethe with the nyghte:
    Thenne (butte the seynctes forbydde!) gif to a spryghte,
    Syrre Rychardes forme is lyped; I'll holde dystraughte,
    Hys bledeynge clai-colde corse, and die eche daie yn thoughte.

    ELINOURE.
    Ah woe bementynge wordes; what wordes can shewe!
    Thou limed river on thie Linche mai bleede,
    Champyons, whose bloude wylle wythe thie waterres flowe,
    And Rudborne streeme be Rudborne streeme indeede!
    Haste gentle Juga trippe ytte oere the meade,
    To know or wheder wee muste waile agayne,
    Or whythe oure fallen knyghte be menged onne the plain.

    So saeing lyke twa levyn blasted-trees,
    Or twain of cloudes that holdeth stormie raine;
    Theie moved gentle o'ere the dewie mees;
    To where Seyncte Albons holie shrynes remayne.
    There dyd theye finde that bothe their knyghtes were sleyne;
    Distraughte: thei wandered to swollen Rudborne's syde.
    Yelled theyre leathalle knelle; sonke in the waves and dyde.

    This poem is a war-eclogue in seven rhyme-royal Spenserians, "Written three hundred Years ago by T. Rowley, a Secular Priest" (p. 273). The poem, the only Rowley poem to be published in Chatterton's lifetime, is signed with Chatterton's usual signature, "D. B. Bristol, May, 1769."

    Herbert Croft: "In 'an account of the most celebrated monasteries in Europe' (April, p. 201.) mention is made of the abbey of St. Alban's, which was suppressed at the dissolution of the monasteries. The scene of Elinoure and Juga (in the next month, May, p. 272.) is laid on Ruddeborne bank, a river near St. Alban's (as we learn from Chatterton's notes); and after the dialogue, Elinoure and Juga — 'moved gentle o'er the dewy mees, | To where St. Alban's holy shrines remain.'" (Love and Madness, 1780, p. 218)

    George Gregory: "The last of these pastorals, called Elinoure and Juga, is one of the finest pathetic tales I have ever read. The complaint of two young females lamenting their lovers slain in the wars of York and Lancaster, was one of the happiest subjects that could be chosen for a tragic pastoral." (Life of Chatterton, 1789, in Works of Chatterton, 1803, 1:cxxx)

    Percival Stockdale: "You will certainly allow that he was equal to the tender melancholy of elegy, when I give you some lines from his Elinoure and Juga. This poem was sent to the man [Horace Walpole] who deprived himself of the high honour of giving an easy, and effectual protection, and encouragement to Chatterton. It was, indeed, a most extraordinary performance, from a boy. Whether he had sent it as his own, or as the production of another, will always be of very little consequence with generous minds, when they reflect that such poetical excellence was achieved by tender years. It would have affected into liberality any literary heart but that of a Walpole." (Lectures on the truly eminent English Poets, 1807, p. 321-322)

    Oliver Elton: "The Rowley romance ... began as a piece of childish make-believe, formed itself into a poetic dream, and became, by easy degrees, an elaborated hoax. The stages are not to be sharply distinguished or precisely dated, and all three were present to the end. The charm of black-letter, and of the illuminated capitals, is said to have stirred Chatterton before he was seven; and the vellums, saved from the muniment room of St. Mary Redcliffe, are thought to have set him on the track of his inventions. Elinoure and Juga, according to one story, was written at the age of twelve. In any case, his whole mind came to be subdued, without scruple, to his creative fancy. The tombs and brasses, the science of blazonry, the historic figure of William Canynge the Mayor, the eighteenth-century glossaries of the younger John Kersey and of Nathan Bailey, the poetry of the Elizabethans and Chaucer — out of all this Chatterton came to build a fictitious world, peopled by poets and patrons of poets; and he began to pass off upon the local antiquaries, and on citizens concerned for the glory of Bristol, the series of poems by an imaginary Thomas Rowley, a monk and the confessor of Canynge." (Survey of English Literature 1730-80, 1928, 2:108)

    A modernized version in heroic couplets was published in Town and Country Magazine the following month, signed "S. W. A. aged 16" — said to be Richard Nares, afterwards editor of the British Critic. Two later rhyme-royal modernizations were later published, in Weekly Magazine or Edinburgh Amusement 43 (30 December 1778) pp. 14-15; and in European Magazine 18 (September 1790) pp. 224-25.

    The Gouler's Requiem
    by Thomas Chatterton, age 12

    Mie boolie entes, adiewe: ne more the syghte
    Of guilden merke shalle mete mie joieous eyne;
    Ne moe the sylver noble sheenynge bryghte,
    Shalle fylle mie hande wythe weighte to speke ytte fyne;
    Ne moe, ne moe, alas, I calle you myne;
    Whyder must you, ah! whydder moste I goe?
    I kenne not either! Oh mie emmers dygne,
    To parte wythe you wyll wurche me myckle woe.
    I must begon, butte where I dare nott telle,
    O storthe unto mie mynde! I goe to helle.
    Soone as the morne dyd dyghte the roddie sunne,
    A shade of theves eache streacke of lyghte dyd seeme;
    Whan yn the Heaven full half hys course was ronne,
    Eche styrrynge nayghbour dyd mie harte afleme;
    Thie Losse, or quyck or slepe, was aie mie dreme;
    For thee, O goulde, I did the lawe ycrase,
    For thee I gotten or bie wiles or breme;
    Ynn thee I all mie joie and goode dyd place;
    Botte nowe to mee thie pleasaunce ys ne moe,
    I kenne notte botte for thee I to the quede muste goe.

    The ROMAUNTE of the CNYGHTE
    By JOHN' DE BERGHAM (Thomas Chatterton)
    From a ms. in Chatterton's hand-writing, in the possession of Mr. Cottle

    The Sunne ento Vyrgyne was gotten,
    The floureys al arounde onspryngede,
    The woddie Grasse blaunched the Fenne
    The Quenis Ermyne arised fro Bedde;
    Syr Knyghte dyd ymounte oponn a Stede
    Ke Rouncie ne Drybblette of make

    Romaunte: Romance
    Cnyghte: Knight
    Onspryngede: faded, fallen
    Woddie: woody
    Blaunched: whitened
    Rouncie: a cart horse, or one put to menial services
    Dhybblette: small, little

    The ROMANCE of the KNIGHT
    MODERNISED By THOMAS CHATTERTON
    From a ms. of Chatterton's in the possession of Mr. Cottle

    The pleasing Sweets of Spring and Summer past,
    The falling Leaf flies in the sultry blast,
    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 ravished 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.

    To Horace Walpole
    by Thomas Chatterton, age 17

    WALPOLE, I thought not I should ever see
    So mean a heart as thine has proved to be.
    Thou who, in luxury nurst, behold'st with scorn
    The boy, who friendless, fatherless, forlorn,
    Asks thy high favour—thou mayst call me cheat.
    Say, didst thou never practise such deceit?
    Who wrote Otranto? but I will not chide:
    Scorn I'll repay with scorn, and pride with pride.
    Still, Walpole, still thy prosy chapters write,
    And twaddling letters to some fair indite;
    Laud all above thee, fawn and cringe to those
    Who, for thy fame, were better friends than foes;
    Still spurn th' incautious fool who dares—
    Had I the gifts of wealth and luxury shared,
    Not poor and mean, Walpole! thou hadst not dared
    Thus to insult. But I shall live and stand
    By Rowley's side, when thou art dead and damned.
    Elegy On The Death Of Mr. Phillips
    by Thomas Chatterton, age 16

    No more I hail the morning's golden gleam,
    No more the wonders of the view I sing;
    Friendship requires a melancholy theme,
    At her command the awful lyre I string!

    Now as I wander through this leafless grove,
    Where tempests howl, and blasts eternal rise,
    How shall I teach the chorded shell to move,
    Or stay the gushing torrent from my eyes?

    Phillips! great master of the boundless lyre,
    The would my soul-rack'd muse attempt to paint;
    Give me a double portion of thy fire,
    Or all the powers of language are too faint.

    Say, soul unsullied by the filth of vice,
    Say, meek-eyed spirit, where's thy tuneful shell,
    Which when the silver stream was lock'd with ice,
    Was wont to cheer the tempest-ravaged dell?

    Oft as the filmy veil of evening drew
    The thick'ning shade upon the vivid green,
    Thou, lost in transport at the dying view,
    Bid'st the ascending muse display the scene.

    When golden Autumn, wreathed in ripen'd corn,
    From purple clusters prest the foamy wine,
    Thy genius did his sallow brows adorn,
    And made the beauties of the season thine.

    With rustling sound the yellow foliage flies,
    And wantons with the wind in rapid whirls;
    The gurgling riv'let to the valley hies,
    Whilst on its bank the spangled serpent curls.

    The joyous charms of Spring delighted saw
    Their beauties doubly glaring in thy lay;
    Nothing was Spring which Phillips did not draw,
    And every image of his muse was May.

    So rose the regal hyacinthial star,
    So shone the verdure of the daisied bed,
    So seemed the forest glimmering from afar;
    You saw the real prospect as you read.

    Majestic Summer's blooming flow'ry pride
    Next claim'd the honour of his nervous song;
    He taught the stream in hollow trills to glide,
    And led the glories of the year along.

    Pale rugged Winter bending o'er his tread,
    His grizzled hair bedropt with icy dew;
    His eyes, a dusky light congealed and dead,
    His robe, a tinge of bright ethereal blue.

    His train a motley'd, sanguine, sable cloud,
    He limps along the russet, dreary moor,
    Whilst rising whirlwinds, blasting, keen, and loud,
    Roll the white surges to the sounding shore.

    Nor were his pleasures unimproved by thee;
    Pleasures he has, though horridly deform'd;
    The polished lake, the silver'd hill we see,
    Is by thy genius fired, preserved, and warm'd.

    The rough October has his pleasures too;
    But I'm insensible to every joy:
    Farewell the laurel! now I grasp the yew,
    And all my little powers in grief employ.

    Immortal shadow of my much-loved friend!
    Clothed in thy native virtue meet my soul,
    When on the fatal bed, my passions bend,
    And curb my floods of anguish as they roll.

    In thee each virtue found a pleasing cell,
    Thy mind was honour, thy soul divine;
    With thee did every god of genius dwell,
    Thou was the Helicon of all the nine.

    Fancy, whose various figure-tinctured vest
    Was ever changing to a different hue;
    Her head, with varied bays and flow'rets drest,
    Her eyes, two spangles of the morning dew.

    With dancing attitude she swept thy string;
    And now she soars, and now again descends;
    And now reclining on the zephyr's wing,
    Unto the velvet-vested mead she bends.

    Peace, deck'd in all the softness of the dove,
    Over thy passions spread her silver plume;
    The rosy veil of harmony and love
    Hung on thy soul in eternal bloom.

    Peace, gentlest, softest of the virtues, spread
    Her silver pinions, wet with dewy tears,
    Upon her best distinguished poet's head,
    And taught his lyre the music of the spheres.

    Temp'rance, with health and beauty in her train,
    And massy-muscled strength in graceful pride,
    Pointed at scarlet luxury and pain,
    And did at every frugal feast preside.

    Black melancholy stealing to the shade
    With raging madness, frantic, loud, and dire,
    Whose bloody hand displays the reeking blade,
    Were strangers to thy heaven-directed lyre.

    Content, who smiles in every frown of fate,
    Wreath'd thy pacific brow and sooth'd thy ill:
    In thy own virtues and thy genius great,
    The happy muse laid every trouble still.

    But see! the sick'ning lamp of day retires,
    And the meek evening shakes the dusky grey;
    The west faint glimmers with the saffron fires,
    And like thy life, O Phillips! dies away.

    Here, stretched upon this heaven-ascending hill,
    I'll wait the horrors of the coming night,
    I'll imitate the gently-plaintive rill,
    And by the glare of lambent vapours write.

    Wet with the dew the yellow hawthorns bow;
    The rustic whistles through the echoing cave;
    Far o'er the lea the breathing cattle low,
    And the full Avon lifts the darken'd wave.

    Now, as the mantle of the evening swells
    Upon my mind, I feel a thick'ning gloom!
    Ah! could I charm by necromantic spells
    The soul of Phillips from the deathy tomb!

    Then would we wander through the darken'd vale,
    In converse such as heavenly spirits use,
    And, borne upon the pinions of the gale,
    Hymn the Creator, and exert the muse.

    But, horror to reflection! now no more
    Will Phillips sing, the wonder of the plain!
    When, doubting whether they might not adore,
    Admiring mortals heard his nervous strain.

    See! see! the pitchy vapour hides the lawn,
    Nought but a doleful bell of death is heard,
    Save where into a blasted oak withdrawn
    The scream proclaims the curst nocturnal bird.

    Now, rest my muse, but only rest to weep
    A friend made dear by every sacred tie;
    Unknown to me be comfort peace or sleep:
    Phillips is dead- 'tis pleasure then to die.

    Few are the pleasures Chatterton e'er knew,
    Short were the moments of his transient peace;
    But melancholy robb'd him of those few,
    And this hath bid all future comfort cease.

    And can the muse be silent, Phillips gone!
    And am I still alive? My soul, arise!
    The robe of immortality put on,
    And meet thy Phillips in his native skies.
    Chatterton’s appearance has been described by those who were familiar with it. According to them all he was well grown and manly, having a proud air and a stately bearing. Whenever he cared to ingratiate himself, he is said to have been exceedingly repossessing; though as a rule he bore himself as a conscious and acknowledged superior. His eyes, which were grey and very brilliant, were evidently his most remarkable feature. One was brighter than the other (Gent. Mag. new ser. x. 133), appearing even larger than the other when flashing under strong excitement. George Catcott describes it as "a kind of hawk’s eye," adding that "one could see his soul through it." William Barrett, who had observed him keenly as an anatomist, said "he never saw such eyes—fire rolling at the bottom of them." He acknowledged to Sir Herbert Croft (Love and Madness, p. 272) that he had often purposely differed in opinion from Chatterton "to see how wonderfully his eye would strike fire, kindle, and blaze up!"

    Chatterton Quotes

    William Wordsworth called Chatterton "the marvelous boy" in his poem "Resolution and Independence" and said that he "excelled in every species of composition."
    Percy Bysshe Shelley mentioned the "rose pale" Chatterton with obvious affection and admiration; in his tribute poem to Keats, "Adonais," Shelley named Chatterton among the "inheritors of unfulfilled renown."
    Lord Byron compared Chatterton favorably to Burns and Wordsworth for purity and avoiding vulgar displays of elegance.

    John Keats dedicated his poem "Endymion" to Thomas Chatterton and wrote a "Sonnet to Chatterton" in which he praised the "flash" of his "Genius" and his "voice, majestic and elate." Keats also called Chatterton "the most English of poets except Shakespeare." [One very interesting thing about Chatterton―and there are so many!―is the high percentage of "native" English words that he uses (by which I mean words that predate French and later additions to the language). Chatterton seems to have had a natural affiliation for, and a strong inclination to use, the older words in the English lexicon.] Keats also called him the "purest writer in the English language." When Chatterton wrote, he went back to Rossetti's "day-spring" of Romantic poetry: the well that Chaucer first drew from.

    Samuel Taylor Coleridge's first published poem was "Monody on the Death of Chatterton" in which he called Chatterton a "heaven-born genius" and a "sweet harper." Coleridge stared the poem when he was 13 and revised it at least six times over a period of almost 50 years. The final version was published shortly before his death in 1834.

    Dr. Samuel Johnson told his biographer Boswell: "This is the most extraordinary young man that has encountered my knowledge. It is wonderful how the whelp has written such things."
    Dante Gabriel Rossetti called Chatterton "the true day-spring of Romantic poetry," named him "the absolutely miraculous Chatterton" and declared him to be "as great as any English poet whatever."
    Robert Browning praised Chatterton's gift for imitation.
    Robert Southey in his poem "A Vision of Judgement" named Chatterton "first" among "the youths whom the Muses / Mark'd for themselves at birth."
    Joseph Warton said that Chatterton was "a prodigy of genius, and would have proved the first of English poets had he reached a mature age."
    Edmond Malone declared him to be "the greatest genius that England has produced since the days of Shakespeare."
    John Evans called Chatterton "the mad genius by birthright."
    Joseph Cottle said of Chatterton that "it is fair to proclaim him the very first of all premature geniuses."

    Romantic Poet Timeline with Birth Dates

    Hallmarks of the "Romantic" poet include: individualism, speaking in the first person or from the poet's individual perspective, the preference for imagination and tolerance over conformity, the belief in social justice and equality, rejection of ancient gods and primitive religious beliefs, rejection of the idea that kings and lords are better than commoners and/or ought to rule them, expressions of raw emotions including passion, and a return to one's natural native language over high-blown rhetoric. Not every poet here is "Romantic" in every sense, but I think the poets below do share certain poetic "genes." I agree with others who have postulated that Modernism is primarily an extension of Romanticism. Thus, I have included those Modernists who seem most "Romantic" to me, but it's far from a perfect science!―Michael R. Burch

    Sappho (circa 630 BC) was the first great lyric poet that we know by name today
    The author of the Bible's "Song of Songs" or "Song of Solomon" (circa 500 BC)
    Ovid (43 AD) was famous in his early twenties for his erotic love poems
    Edmund Spenser (1552) was the father of the English Romantics to follow―in spirit, in emotion, in passion, and in those lovely, flowing, haunting melodies
    John Milton (1608) claimed to be "justifying the ways of God to man," but he made Adam, Eva and Lucifer rebellious romantic heroes for the ages!
    Jean Jacques Rousseau (1712) was an important early influence on the Romantic poets and writers to come
    Thomas Gray (1716) may not have been a Romantic, per se, but he did speak eloquently for the common man, a major Romantic theme
    Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749) was the first superstar of the worldwide Romantic Movement, although he later disavowed being a Romantic!
    Thomas Chatterton (1752) was he the first of the major poets of the English Romantic Movement?
    William Blake (1757) not only influenced poets to come, but singer-songwriters like Bob Dylan, John Lennon and Jim Morrison (the Doors were named after Blake's "doors of perception")
    Robert Burns (1759) the great Scottish Romantic poet and songwriter ("Auld Lang Syne", etc.) was named the greatest Scotsman of all time in a recent poll
    William Wordsworth (1770) was the most famous of the English Romantic poets in his day; his and Coleridge's Lyrical Ballads became the prime text of English Romanticism
    Sir Walter Scott (1771) is more famous today as a novelist (Ivanhoe, etc.) but he was a talented poet as well
    Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772) is famous primarily for two poems: "Kubla Khan" and "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"
    Robert Southey (1774) became England's Poet Laureate and edited Chatterton's poems when they were published; he also introduced the world to Gerard Manley Hopkins' poetry
    George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788) was the "bad boy" of English poetry in his day, but a good poet
    Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792) is generally considered to have been a major poet despite dying young
    John Clare (1793) joined the Romantics in writing poems of individualism and nature, although he was perhaps not a Romantic per se
    John Keats (1795) is generally considered to have been a major poet despite dying young, like his friend Shelley
    Victor Hugo (1802) the famous novelist (The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Les Miserables, etc.) was also an important French Romantic poet
    Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803) was perhaps one of the earliest Modernists, drawing on Oriental sources as well as English
    Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806) is best known today for her Sonnets from the Portuguese
    Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807) would rival Alfred Tennyson in fame during their lifetimes
    Lord Alfred Tennyson (1809) is probably England's most famous Poet Laureate
    Edgar Allan Poe (1809) would be a major influence on French Romantics and Symbolists like Charles Baudelaire
    Robert Browning (1812) became famous for his dramatic monologues; he was married to Elizabeth Barrett Browning (the first star coupling of poets!)
    Walt Whitman (1819) was similar to William Blake in many of his views, and to Wordsworth at times, although their writing styles were very different
    Herman Melville (1819) is best known for his novels (Moby Dick, etc.), but he was also a poet
    Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828) is known for his highly Romantic paintings, and he was also an accomplished poet
    Christina Rossetti (1830) may have been a better poet than her more famous brother
    Emily Dickinson (1830) defies classification, but she sounds decidedly Romantic at times!
    Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837) is remembered today for his lush rhythms and sometimes "naughty" themes
    Thomas Hardy (1840) was a famous novelist who chose to write poetry later in life; his "Darkling Thrush" is one of the most anthologized English poems
    Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844) is another hard-to-classify poet, but like Chatterton he went back to the day-spring of English poetry
    A. E. Housman (1859) while not a Romantic, per se, did share major themes with the Romantics, including the need for tolerance, compassion and sane laws
    William Butler Yeats (1865) has been called the Last Romantic and the First Modernist; whatever he was, he was damn good!
    Anne Reeve Aldrich (1866) is little-known today, but her best poems rival those of Emily Dickinson and Christina Rossetti
    Ernest Dowson (1867) may be little-known today, but it is hardly his fault, as he wrote some of the most passionate, moving poems on record
    Edward Arlington Robinson (1869) was as famous as Robert Frost in their day, and deservedly so
    Robert Frost (1874) was a darkly Romantic poet in poems like "Acquainted with the Night" and quite a good love poet in "To Earthward"
    Edward Thomas (1878) was a friend of Frost's and wrote one of his best poems, "Adlestrop," on the train going to meet him for the first time
    Wallace Stevens (1879) was a master of word-melody, and like the Romantics preferred the human imagination to obsolete religions and imaginary gods
    D. H. Lawrence (1885) could match Shelley and Keats in emotional intensity in poems like "Piano" and like the Romantics he believed sex was good, not "evil"
    Ezra Pound (1885) may have been the most influential of the Modernists
    T. S. Eliot (1888) may have written the most Romantic of modern poems: "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"
    Conrad Aiken (1889) was a friend of Eliot's and also sounded quite the modern Romantic in his Senlin poems and the lovely, haunting "Bread and Music"
    Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892) wrote philosophical love sonnets to rival Shakespeare's, from a woman's perspective
    Wilfred Owen (1893) was perhaps the greatest of the anti-war poets, and one of the ultimate modern realists
    e. e. cummings (1894) may have been eccentric with capitalization and typography, but he was surely a Romantic at heart, and in his desire for compassion, justice and tolerance
    Louise Bogan (1897) is undervalued today, but only because not enough people read her best poems
    Hart Crane (1899) the ultimate rhapsode may have written the best love poem in the English language in the longer version of "Voyages"
    Langston Hughes (1902) wrote Romantic poems from a black perspective: "Harlem," "Cross," "The Weary Blues," "The Negro Speaks of Rivers"
    W. H. Auden (1907) may have written the best lullaby in the English language and the best elegy in his tribute to W. B. Yeats
    Theodore Roethke (1908) is still remembered for poems like "My Papa's Waltz," "The Waking" and "I Knew a Woman"
    Robert Hayden (1913) wrote one of the best and most moving sonnets in the English language: "Those Winter Sundays"
    Dylan Thomas (1914) may have been the first modern performance superstar, half a century before M. C. Hammer and Eminem!
    John Berryman (1914) was well-known in his day for his Dream Songs and homage to Anne Bradstreet (the first American poet of note)
    Randall Jarrell (1914) is best known today as a very able poetry critic and for hyper-realistic poems like "The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner"
    Robert Lowell (1917) was the first of the modern Confessional poets; like the Romantics they were highly individualist in their poems
    W. D. Snodgrass (1926) is undervalued today, but he wrote a number of fine poems with Romantic/Confessional attributes
    Anne Sexton (1928) was a well-known Confessional poet in her day; she committed suicide in 1974
    Sylvia Plath (1932) wrote a number of "supercharged" Romantic/Confessional poems before committing suicide in 1963
    Kevin N. Roberts (1969) claimed to be the reincarnation of Swinburne and was highly regarded among the Neo-Romantics; he founded and edited Romantics Quarterly

    Famous Juvenile Writers

    Poets and other writers who began writing at an early age include:

    Mattie Stepanek started writing poems at age 4 and published several best-selling "Heartstrings" poetry books before dying at age 13; President Jimmy Carter called him "the most extraordinary person whom I have ever known."
    Marshall Ball wrote his first poem, "Altogether Lovely," at age 5, despite being unable to speak and barely able to move; he learned to write by pointing at alphabet blocks.
    E. E. Cummings wrote a poem to his father at age 6, and was writing poetry regularly by age 8.
    Marjory Fleming learned to read at age 3, preferring adult books, and died at age 8; Robert Louis Stevenson called her "the noblest work of God."
    Thomas Chatterton was considered "slow" and a "fool" at age 6-7; he became a voracious reader and writer and some of his published poems and hymns were written at age 10-12; all his poems were written by age 17.
    Thomas Warton, a future Poet Laureate of England, did a translation of a Martial poem at age 9 and wrote his most famous poem, "The Pleasures of Melancholy," at age 17.
    Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote the poem "Verses on a Cat" at age 10.
    Helen Keller, despite being blind, deaf and unable to speak until age 6, wrote a short story, "The Frost King," that was published by age 11.
    Alexander Pope wrote the poem "Ode to Solitude" at age 12.
    Anne Frank started her famous diary at age 13.
    Samuel Taylor Coleridge started writing his monody to Chatterton at age 13.
    William Cullen Bryant had his satirical poem "The Embargo" published at age 13.
    Lord Byron had poems written at age 14 published in Fugitive Pieces, but the book was recalled and burned because some of the poems were too "hot," especially the poem "To Mary."
    Stephen Crane wrote the short story "Uncle Jake and the Bell Handle" at age 14.
    Arthur Rimbaud was published at age 15; he retired from writing at age 19 to become a soldier and smuggler!
    S. E. Hinton wrote her first book at age 15 and published her best-selling novel The Outsiders at age 18.
    Mary Shelley, the wife of Percy Bysshe Shelley, began work on her famous gothic horror novel Frankenstein at age 18.

    Poets Who May Have Been Mad and/or Committed Suicide

    Poets who were said to have been mad include: William Blake, Lord Byron, Thomas Chatterton, John Clare, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, William Collins, John Gay, Oliver Goldsmith, Edgar Allan Poe, Ezra Pound, Theodore Roethke, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Christopher Smart

    Poets who committed suicide include: John Berryman, Paul Celan, Thomas Chatterton, Hart Crane, Randall Jarrell, Vachel Lindsay, Robert Lowell, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Sara Teasdale, Marina Tsvetaeva
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Sonnets For Hιlθne
    . . Extract - Poem by Pierre de Ronsard

    If to love, Madam, is to dream and long
    and brood by day and night on means of pleasing you,
    to be forgetful of all else, to wish to do nothing else
    but adore and serve the beauty that wounds me,
    If to love is to pursue a happiness which flies me,
    to lose myself in loneliness, to suffer much pain,
    to fear greatly and to hold my tongue,
    to weep, to beg for pity, and to see myself sent away,
    If to love is to live in you more than in myself,
    to hide great weariness under a mask of joy,
    to feel in the depths of my soul the odds against which I fight,
    to be hot and cold as the fever of love takes me,
    To be ashamed, when I speak to you, to confess my pain –
    if that is to love, then I love you furiously,
    I love you, knowing full well my pain is deadly.
    The heart says so often enough; the tongue is silent.


    Sonnets pour Hιlθne


    Si c’est aimer, Madame, et de jour et de nuict,
    Resver, songer, penser le moyen de vous plaire,
    Oublier toute chose, et ne vouloir rien faire
    Qu’adorer et servir la beautι qui me nuit,
    Si c’est aimer, de suivre un bonheur qui me fuit,
    De me perdre moymesme et d’estre solitaire,
    Souffrir beaucoup de mal, beaucoup craindre et me taire,
    Pleurer, crier mercy, et m’en voir esconduit,
    Si c’est aimer, de vivre en vous plus qu’en moymesme,
    Cacher d’un front joyeux une langueur extresme,
    Sentir au fond de l’ΰme un combat inegal,
    Chaud, froid, comme la fievre amoureuse me traitte,
    Honteux, parlant ΰ vous, de confesser mon mal :
    Si cela c’est aimer, furieux je vous aime,
    Je vous aime, et sηay bien que mon mal est fatal,
    Le coeur le dit assez, mai la langue est muette.


    Pierre de Ronsard
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    from , (Word from the Hills)
    a sonnet sequence in four movements
    --- by Richard Moore

    11
    You were so solid, father, cold and raw
    as these north winters, where your angry will
    first hardened, as the earth when the long chill
    deepens—as is this country's cruel law—
    yet under trackless snow, without a flaw
    covering meadow, road, and stubbled hill,
    the springs and muffled streams were running still,
    dark until spring came, and the awful thaw.
    In your decay a gentleness appears
    I hadn't guessed—when, gray as rotting snow,
    propped in your chair, your face will run with tears,
    trying to speak, and your hand, stiff and slow,
    will touch my child—who, sensing the cold years
    in your eyes, cries until you let her go.
    by Richard Moore


    This is a wonderfully haunting poem by the poet Richard Moore, who lived in a dilapidated mansion close by the sea, until his death.
    This poem about the poet's father and daughter proves that real life can be darker and more frightening than any horror story.
    Last edited by Tyr-Ziu Saxnot; 06-09-2017 at 07:50 AM.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Part 6 from The Dark Side of the Deity: Interlude
    -------------------------by Joe M. Ruggier

    When Satan hurled, before the Dawn,
    defiance at the Lord of History;
    and Michael stood, and Glory shone,
    Whose hand controlled the timeless Mystery?
    Who but the Insult was the leveler;
    Deliverer and bedeviler?

    When Athens, sung in verse and prose,
    caught all the World's imagination;
    when Ilion fell, and Rome arose,
    and Time went on like pagination:
    Who but the Insult was the leveler;
    Deliverer and bedeviler?

    When books, in numberless infinities,
    cross-fertilize the teeming brain,
    and warring, vex the Soul with Vanities,
    and Insults hurtle, Insults rain:
    Who but the Insult is the leveler;
    Deliverer and bedeviler?

    And when we too shall cease to be,
    like all the Kingdoms of the Past,
    and groaning, gasping, wrenching free,
    we bite, at last, alone, the dust:
    Who but the Insult is the leveler;
    Deliverer and bedeviler?

    When church‑bells fill the wandering fields
    with Love and Fear,
    the Flesh and Blood of Jesus yields
    deliverance dear,
    to them who believe in the Compliment Sinsear.

    ----------------------------------------------------

    Joe Ruggier is quite a story, having sold over 20,000 books by going door-to-door. He is a Maltese poet who now lives in British Columbia.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Nature -- the Gentlest Mother is,
    ------------- by Emily Dickinson


    Nature -- the Gentlest Mother is,
    Impatient of no Child --
    The feeblest -- or the waywardest --
    Her Admonition mild --

    In Forest -- and the Hill --
    By Traveller -- be heard --
    Restraining Rampant Squirrel --
    Or too impetuous Bird --

    How fair Her Conversation --
    A Summer Afternoon --
    Her Household -- Her Assembly --
    And when the Sun go down --

    Her Voice among the Aisles
    Incite the timid prayer
    Of the minutest Cricket --
    The most unworthy Flower --

    When all the Children sleep --
    She turns as long away
    As will suffice to light Her lamps --
    Then bending from the Sky --

    With infinite Affection --
    And infiniter Care --
    Her Golden finger on Her lip --
    Wills Silence -- Everywhere --
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Carlovingian Dreams
    ---------by Carl Sandburg

    COUNT these reminiscences like money.
    The Greeks had their picnics under another name.
    The Romans wore glad rags and told their neighbors, “What of it?”
    The Carlovingians hauling logs on carts, they too
    Stuck their noses in the air and stuck their thumbs to their noses
    And tasted life as a symphonic dream of fresh eggs broken over a frying pan left by an uncle who killed men with spears and short swords.
    Count these reminiscences like money.

    Drift, and drift on, white ships.
    Sailing the free sky blue, sailing and changing and sailing,
    Oh, I remember in the blood of my dreams how they sang before me.
    Oh, they were men and women who got money for their work, money or love or dreams.
    Sail on, white ships.
    Let me have spring dreams.
    Let me count reminiscences like money; let me count picnics, glad rags and the great bad manners of the Carlovingians breaking fresh eggs in the copper pans of their proud uncles.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    'Tis Moonlight, Summer Moonlight
    ------- by Emily Bronte
    'Tis moonlight, summer moonlight,
    All soft and still and fair;
    The solemn hour of midnight
    Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere,

    But most where trees are sending
    Their breezy boughs on high,
    Or stooping low are lending
    A shelter from the sky.

    And there in those wild bowers
    A lovely form is laid;
    Green grass and dew-steeped flowers
    Wave gently round her head.

    ----------------------------------------------------------------------


    There came a Day at Summer's full
    --------- by Emily Dickinson
    There came a Day at Summer's full,
    Entirely for me --
    I thought that such were for the Saints,
    Where Resurrections -- be --

    The Sun, as common, went abroad,
    The flowers, accustomed, blew,
    As if no soul the solstice passed
    That maketh all things new --

    The time was scarce profaned, by speech --
    The symbol of a word
    Was needless, as at Sacrament,
    The Wardrobe -- of our Lord --

    Each was to each The Sealed Church,
    Permitted to commune this -- time --
    Lest we too awkward show
    At Supper of the Lamb.

    The Hours slid fast -- as Hours will,
    Clutched tight, by greedy hands --
    So faces on two Decks, look back,
    Bound to opposing lands --

    And so when all the time had leaked,
    Without external sound
    Each bound the Other's Crucifix --
    We gave no other Bond --

    Sufficient troth, that we shall rise --
    Deposed -- at length, the Grave --
    To that new Marriage,
    Justified -- through Calvaries of Love --
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    The Sea And the Hills
    ------- by Rudyard Kipling, 1902


    Who hath desired the Sea? -- the sight of salt wind-hounded --
    The heave and the halt and the hurl and the crash of the comber win hounded?
    The sleek-barrelled swell before storm, grey, foamless, enormous, and growing --
    Stark calm on the lap of the Line or the crazy-eyed hurricane blowing --
    His Sea in no showing the same his Sea and the same 'neath each showing:
    His Sea as she slackens or thrills?
    So and no otherwise -- so and no otherwise -- hillmen desire their Hills!

    Who hath desired the Sea? -- the immense and contemptuous surges?
    The shudder, the stumble, the swerve, as the star-stabbing bow-sprit emerges?
    The orderly clouds of the Trades, the ridged, roaring sapphire thereunder --
    Unheralded cliff-haunting flaws and the headsail's low-volleying thunder --
    His Sea in no wonder the same his Sea and the same through each wonder:
    His Sea as she rages or stills?
    So and no otherwise -- so and no otherwise -- hillmen desire their Hills.

    Who hath desired the Sea? Her menaces swift as her mercies?
    The in-rolling walls of the fog and the silver-winged breeze that disperses?
    The unstable mined berg going South and the calvings and groans that de clare it --
    White water half-guessed overside and the moon breaking timely to bare it --
    His Sea as his fathers have dared -- his Sea as his children shall dare it:
    His Sea as she serves him or kills?
    So and no otherwise -- so and no otherwisc -- hillmen desire their Hills.

    Who hath desired the Sea? Her excellent loneliness rather
    Than forecourts of kings, and her outermost pits than the streets where men gather
    Inland, among dust, under trees -- inland where the slayer may slay him --
    Inland, out of reach of her arms, and the bosom whereon he must lay him
    His Sea from the first that betrayed -- at the last that shall never betray him:
    His Sea that his being fulfils?
    So and no otherwise -- so and no otherwise -- hillmen desire their Hills.
    Kipling was criticized by top poets of his era due to their jealousy of his talent in writing his being a noted author in both poetry and a very famous published author of fiction/tales.
    I share not that biased opinion that criticized him during his time and I see him as a truly great poet as well.-Tyr
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    All In a Family Way
    --- by Thomas Moore
    My banks are all furnished with rags,
    So thick, even Freddy can't thin 'em;
    I've torn up my old money-bags,
    Having little or nought to put in 'em.
    My tradesman are smashing by dozens,
    But this is all nothing, they say;
    For bankrupts, since Adam, are cousins,
    So, it's all in the family way.


    My Debt not a penny takes from me,
    As sages the matter explain; --
    Bob owes it to Tom and then Tommy
    Just owes it to Bob back again.
    Since all have thus taken to owing,
    There's nobody left that can pay;
    And this is the way to keep going, --
    All quite in the family way.


    My senators vote away millions,
    To put in Prosperity's budget;
    And though it were billions or trillions,
    The generous rogues wouldn't grudge it.
    'Tis all but a family hop,
    'Twas Pitt began dancing the hay;
    Hands round! -- why the deuce should we stop?
    'Tis all in the family way.


    My labourers used to eat mutton,
    As any great man of the State does;
    And now the poor devils are put on
    Small rations of tea and potatoes.
    But cheer up John, Sawney and Paddy,
    The King is your father, they say;
    So ev'n if you starve for your Daddy,
    'Tis all in the family way.


    My rich manufacturers tumble,
    My poor ones have nothing to chew;
    And, even if themselves do not grumble,
    Their stomachs undoubtedly do.
    But coolly to fast en famille,
    Is as good for the soul as to pray;
    And famine itself is genteel,
    When one starves in a family way.


    I have found out a secret for Freddy,
    A secret for next Budget day;
    Though, perhaps he may know it already,
    As he, too, 's a sage in his way.
    When next for the Treasury scene he
    Announces "the Devil to pay",
    Let him write on the bills, "Nota bene,
    'Tis all in the family way."
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

  20. #629
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    The Armadillo
    --- by Elizabeth Bishop
    for Robert Lowell


    This is the time of year
    when almost every night
    the frail, illegal fire balloons appear.
    Climbing the mountain height,

    rising toward a saint
    still honored in these parts,
    the paper chambers flush and fill with light
    that comes and goes, like hearts.

    Once up against the sky it's hard
    to tell them from the stars —
    planets, that is — the tinted ones:
    Venus going down, or Mars,

    or the pale green one. With a wind,
    they flare and falter, wobble and toss;
    but if it's still they steer between
    the kite sticks of the Southern Cross,

    receding, dwindling, solemnly
    and steadily forsaking us,
    or, in the downdraft from a peak,
    suddenly turning dangerous.

    Last night another big one fell.
    It splattered like an egg of fire
    against the cliff behind the house.
    The flame ran down. We saw the pair

    of owls who nest there flying up
    and up, their whirling black-and-white
    stained bright pink underneath, until
    they shrieked up out of sight.

    The ancient owls' nest must have burned.
    Hastily, all alone,
    a glistening armadillo left the scene,
    rose-flecked, head down, tail down,

    and then a baby rabbit jumped out,
    short-eared, to our surprise.
    So soft! — a handful of intangible ash
    with fixed, ignited eyes.

    Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry!
    O falling fire and piercing cry
    and panic, and a weak mailed fist
    clenched ignorant against the sky!
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

  21. #630
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    Burning Drift-Wood
    ----by John Greenleaf Whittier
    Before my drift-wood fire I sit,
    And see, with every waif I burn,
    Old dreams and fancies coloring it,
    And folly's unlaid ghosts return.

    O ships of mine, whose swift keels cleft
    The enchanted sea on which they sailed,
    Are these poor fragments only left
    Of vain desires and hopes that failed?

    Did I not watch from them the light
    Of sunset on my towers in Spain,
    And see, far off, uploom in sight
    The Fortunate Isles I might not gain?

    Did sudden lift of fog reveal
    Arcadia's vales of song and spring,
    And did I pass, with grazing keel,
    The rocks whereon the sirens sing?

    Have I not drifted hard upon
    The unmapped regions lost to man,
    The cloud-pitched tents of Prester John,
    The palace domes of Kubla Khan?

    Did land winds blow from jasmine flowers,
    Where Youth the ageless Fountain fills?
    Did Love make sign from rose blown bowers,
    And gold from Eldorado's hills?

    Alas! the gallant ships, that sailed
    On blind Adventure's errand sent,
    Howe'er they laid their courses, failed
    To reach the haven of Content.

    And of my ventures, those alone
    Which Love had freighted, safely sped,
    Seeking a good beyond my own,
    By clear-eyed Duty piloted.

    O mariners, hoping still to meet
    The luck Arabian voyagers met,
    And find in Bagdad's moonlit street,
    Haroun al Raschid walking yet,

    Take with you, on your Sea of Dreams,
    The fair, fond fancies dear to youth.
    I turn from all that only seems,
    And seek the sober grounds of truth.

    What matter that it is not May,
    That birds have flown, and trees are bare,
    That darker grows the shortening day,
    And colder blows the wintry air!

    The wrecks of passion and desire,
    The castles I no more rebuild,
    May fitly feed my drift-wood fire,
    And warm the hands that age has chilled.

    Whatever perished with my ships,
    I only know the best remains;
    A song of praise is on my lips
    For losses which are now my gains.

    Heap high my hearth! No worth is lost;
    No wisdom with the folly dies.
    Burn on, poor shreds, your holocaust
    Shall be my evening sacrifice!

    Far more than all I dared to dream,
    Unsought before my door I see;
    On wings of fire and steeds of steam
    The world's great wonders come to me,

    And holier signs, unmarked before,
    Of Love to seek and Power to save, --
    The righting of the wronged and poor,
    The man evolving from the slave;

    And life, no longer chance or fate,
    Safe in the gracious Fatherhood.
    I fold o'er-wearied hands and wait,
    In full assurance of the good.

    And well the waiting time must be,
    Though brief or long its granted days,
    If Faith and Hope and Charity
    Sit by my evening hearth-fire's blaze.

    And with them, friends whom Heaven has spared,
    Whose love my heart has comforted,
    And, sharing all my joys, has shared
    My tender memories of the dead, --

    Dear souls who left us lonely here,
    Bound on their last, long voyage, to whom
    We, day by day, are drawing near,
    Where every bark has sailing room.

    I know the solemn monotone
    Of waters calling unto me;
    I know from whence the airs have blown
    That whisper of the Eternal Sea.

    As low my fires of drift-wood burn,
    I hear that sea's deep sounds increase,
    And, fair in sunset light, discern
    Its mirage-lifted Isles of Peace.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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