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Mary Darby Robinson - Monody to the Memory of Chatterton
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Chill penury repress`d his noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of his soul.
                                 GRAY. 


IF GRIEF can deprecate the wrath of Heaven, 
Or human frailty hope to be forgiven ! 
Ere now thy sainted spirit bends its way 
To the bland regions of celestial day; 
Ere now, thy soul, immers`d in purest air 
Smiles at the triumphs of supreme Despair; 
Or bath`d in seas of endless bliss, disdains 
The vengeful memory of mortal pains; 
Yet shall the MUSE a fond memorial give 
To shield thy name, and bid thy GENIUS live. 

  Too proud for pity, and too poor for praise, 
No voice to cherish, and no hand to raise; 
Torn, stung, and sated, with this "mortal coil," 
This weary, anxious scene of fruitless toil; 
Not all the graces that to youth belong, 
Nor all the energies of sacred song; 
Nor all that FANCY, all that GENIUS gave, 
Could snatch thy wounded spirit from the grave. 

  Hard was thy lot, from every comfort torn; 
In POVERTY`S cold arms condemn`d to mourn; 
To live by mental toil, e`en when the brain 
Could scarce its trembling faculties sustain; 
To mark the dreary minutes slowly creep: 
Each day to labour, and each night to weep; 
`Till the last murmur of thy frantic soul, 
In proud concealment from its mansion stole, 
While ENVY springing from her lurid cave, 
Snatch`d the young LAURELS from thy rugged grave. 
So the pale primrose, sweetest bud of May, 
Scarce wakes to beauty, ere it feels decay; 
While baleful weeds their hidden n poisons pour, 
Choke the green sod, and wither every flow`r. 

  Immur`d in shades, from busy scenes remov`d; 
No sound to solace,­but the verse he lov`d: 
No soothing numbers harmoniz`d his ear; 
No feeling bosom gave his griefs a tear; 
Obscurely born­no gen`rous friend he found 
To lead his trembling steps o`er classic ground. 
No patron fill`d his heart with flatt`ring hope, 
No tutor`d lesson gave his genius scope; 
Yet, while poetic ardour nerv`d each thought, 
And REASON sanction`d what AMBITION taught; 
He soar`d beyond the narrow spells that bind 
The slow perceptions of the vulgar mind; 
The fire once kindled by the breath of FAME, 
Her restless pinions fann`d the glitt`ring flame; 
Warm`d by its rays, he thought each vision just; 
For conscious VIRTUE seldom feels DISTRUST. 

  Frail are the charms delusive FANCY shows, 
And short the bliss her fickle smile bestows; 
Yet the bright prospect pleas`d his dazzled view, 
Each HOPE seem`d ripened, and each PHANTOM true; 
Fill`d with delight, his unsuspecting mind 
Weigh`d not the grov`ling treach`ries of mankind; 
For while a niggard boon his Savants supply`d, 
And NATURE`S claims subdued the voice of PRIDE: 
His timid talents own`d a borrow`d name, 
And gain`d by FICTION what was due to FAME. 

  With secret labour, and with taste refin`d, 
This son of mis`ry form`d his infant mind !
When op`ning Reason`s earliest scenes began, 
The dawn of childhood mark`d the future man ! 
He scorn`d the puerile sports of vulgar boys, 
His little heart aspir`d to nobler joys; 
Creative Fancy wing`d his few short hours, 
While soothing Hope adorn`d his path with flow`rs, 
Yet FAME`S recording hand no trophy gave, 
Save the sad TEAR­to decorate his grave. 

  Yet in this dark, mysterious scene of woe, 
Conviction`s flame shall shed a radiant glow; 
His infant MUSE shall bind with nerves of fire 
The sacrilegious hand that stabs its sire. 
Methinks, I hear his wand`ring shade complain,
While mournful ECHO lingers on the strain; 
Thro` the lone aisle his restless spirit calls, 
His phantom glides along the minster`s § walls; 
Where many an hour his devious footsteps trod, 
Ere Fate resign`d him TO HIS PITYING GOD. 

  Yet, shall the MUSE to gentlest sorrow prone
Adopt his cause, and make his griefs her own; 
Ne`er shall her CHATTERTON`s neglected name, 
Fade in inglorious dreams of doubtful fame; 
Shall he, whose pen immortal GENIUS gave, 
Sleep unlamented in an unknown grave? 
No, ­the fond MUSE shall spurn the base neglect, 
The verse she cherish`d she shall still protect. 

  And if unpitied pangs the mind can move, 
Or graceful numbers warm the heart to love; 
If the fine raptures of poetic fire 
Delight to vibrate on the trembling lyre; 
If sorrow claims the kind embalming tear, 
Or worth oppress`d, excites a pang sincere? 
Some kindred soul shall pour the song divine, 
And with the cypress bough the laurel twine,
Whose weeping leaves the wint`ry blast shall wave 
In mournful murmurs o`er thy unbless`d grave. 

  And tho` no lofty VASE or sculptur`d BUST 
Bends o`er the sod that hides thy sacred dust; 
Tho` no long line of ancestry betrays 
The PRIDE of RELATIVES, or POMP of PRAISE. 
Tho` o`er thy name a blushing nation rears 
OBLIVION`S wing­ to hide REFLECTION`S tears! 
Still shall thy verse in dazzling lustre live, 
And claim a brighter wreath THAN WEALTH CAN GIVE.
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