O Chatterton! how very sad thy fate! Dear child of sorrow -- son of misery! How soon the film of death obscur`d that eye, Whence Genius mildly falsh`d, and high debate. How soon that voice, majestic and elate, Melted in dying numbers! Oh! how nigh Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die A half-blown flow`ret which cold blasts amate. But this is past: thou art among the stars Of highest heaven: to the rolling spheres Thou sweetly singest: nought thy hymning mars, Above the ingrate world and human fears. On earth the good man base detraction bars From thy fair name, and waters it with tears.SourceThe script ran 0 seconds.
The script ran 0 seconds.
