Monody on the Death of Chatterton (1796)

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

When faint and sad o'er sorrow's desart wild
Slow journeys onward poor Misfortune's child;
When fades each lovely form by Fancy drest,
And inly pines the self-consuming breast;
(No scourge of scorpions in thy right arm dread.
No helmed terrors nodding o'er thy head);
Assume, O DEATH! the cherub wings of PEAC,
And bid the heart-sick Wanderer's anguish cease!

Thee, CHATTERTON! yon unblest stones protect
From Want, and the bleak Freezings of neglect!  10
Escap'd the sore wounds of Affliction's rod,
Meek at the Throne of Mercy, and of God,
Perchance, thou raisest high th' enraptur'd hymn
Amid the blaze of Seraphim!

Yet oft ('tis nature's bosom-startling call)
I weep, that heaven-born Genius so should fall;
And oft, in Fancy's saddest hour, my soul
Averted shudders at the poison'd bowl.
Now groans my sickening heart, as still I view
Thy corse of livid hue;  20
And now a flash of indignation high
Darts thro' the tear, that glistens in mine eye!

Is this the land of song-ennobled line?
Is this the land, where Genius ne'er in vain
Pour'd forth his lofty strain?
Ah me! yet SPENSER, gentlest bard divine,
Beneath chill Disappointment's shade,
His weary limbs in lonely anguish lay'd,
And o'er her darling dead
PITY hopeless hung her head,  30
While "mid the pelting of that merciless storm,"
Sunk to the cold earth OTWAY'S famish'd form?

Sublime of thought and confident of fame,
From vales where Avon winds the MINSTREL came.
Lighted-hearted youth! aye, as he hastes along,
And meditates the future song.
How dauntless Ælla fray'd the Dacyan foes;
See, as floating high in air
Glitter teh sunny visions fair,
His eyes dance rapture, and his bosom glows!  40
Friend to the friendless, to the sick man health,
With generous joy he views th' ideal wealth;
He hears the widow's heaven-breath'd prayer of praise;
He marks the shelter'd orphan's tearful gaze;
Or, where the sorrow-shrivell'd captive lay,
Pours the bright blaze of Freedom's noon-tide ray:
And now, indignant, "grasps the patriot steel,"
And her own iron rod he makes Oppression feel.

Clad in Nature's rich array,
And bright in all her tender hues,  50
Sweet tree of Hope! thou loveliest child of Spring
How fair didst thou disclose thine early bloom,
Loading the west-winds with its soft perfume!
And Fancy, elfin form of gorgeous wing,
On every blossom hung her fostering dews,
That, changeful, wanton'd to the orient day!
But soon upon thy poor unsheltered head
Did Penury her sickly mildew shed:
And soon the scathing Lightning bade thee stand
In frowning horro o'er the blighted land!  60

Ah! where are fled the charms of vernal Grace,
And Joy's wild gleams, lighten'd o'er thy face?
YOUTH of tumultuous soul, and haggard eye!
Thy wasted form, thy hurried steps I view,
On thy cold forehead starts the anguish'd dew:
And dreadful was that bosom-rending sigh!

Such were the struggles of that gloomy hour,
When CARE, of withered brow,
Prepared the poison's death-cold power:
Already to thy lips was raised the bowl,  70
When near thee stood AFFECTION meek
(Her bosom bare, and wildly pale her cheek)
Thy sullen gaze she bade thee roll
On scenes that well might melt thy soul;
Thy native cot she flash'd upon thy view,
Thy native cot, where still, at close of day,
PEACE smiling sate, and listen'd to thy lay;
Thy Sister's shrieks she bade thee hear,
And mark thy mother's tear;
See, see her breast's convulsive throe,  80
Her silent agony of woe!
Ah! dash the poison'd chalice from thy hand!

And thou had'st dash'd it, at her soft command,
But that DESPAIR and INDIGNATION rose,
And told again the story of thy woes;
Told the keen insult of th' unfeeling heart;
The dread dependence on the low-born mind;
Told every pang, with which thy soul must smart,
Neglect, and grinning Scorn, and Want combin'd!
Recoiling quick, thou bad'st the friend of pain  90
Roll the black tide of Death thro' every freezing vein!

Ye woods! that wave o'er Avon's rocky steep,
To Fancy's ear sweet is your murm'ring deep!
For here she loves the cypress wreath to weave;
Watching, with wistful eye, the sad'ning tints of eve.
Here, far from men, amid this pathless grove,
In solemn thought the Minstrel wont to rove,
Like star-beam on the slow sequester'd tide
Lone-glittering, thro' the high tree branching wide.
And here, in INSPIRATION's eager hour, 90
When most the big soul feels the madning pow'r,
These wilds, these caverns roaming o'er,
Round which the screaming sea-gulls soar,
With wild unequal steps he pass'd along,
Oft pouring on the winds a broken song:
Anon, upon some rough rock's fearful brow
Would pause abrupt—and gaze upon the waves below.

Poor CHATTERTON! he sorrows for thy fate
Who would have prais'd and lov'd thee, ere too late.
Poor CHATTERTON! farewell! of darkest hues  110
This chaplet cast I on thy unshap'd tomb;
But dare no longer on the sad theme muse,
Lest kindred woes persuade a kindred doom:
For oh! big gall-drops, shook from FOLLY's wing,
Have blacken'd the fair promise of my spring:
And the stern FATE transpierc'd with viewless dart
The last pale Hope, that shiver'd at my heart!

Hence, gloomy thoughts! no more my soul shall dwell
On joys that were! No more endure to weigh
The shame and anguish of the evil day,  120
Wisely forgetful! O'er the ocean swell
Sublime of Hope I seek the cottag'd dell
Where VIRTUE calm with careless step may stray;
And, dancing to the moon-light roundelay,
The wizard PASSIONS weave an holy spell!

O CHATTERTON! that thou wert yet alive!
Sure thou would'st spread the canvass to the gale,
And love, with us, the tinkling team to drive
O'er peaceful Freedom's UNDIVIDED dale;
And we, at sober eve, would round thee throng,  130
Hanging, enraptur'd, on thy stately song!
And greet with smiles the young-eyed POESY
All deftly mask'd, as hoar ANTIQUITY.

Alas, vain Phantasies! the fleeting brood
Of Woe self-solac'd in her dreamy mood!
Yet will I love to follow the sweet dream,
Where Susquehannah pours his untam'd stream;
And on some hill, whose forest-frowning side
Waves o'er the murmurs of his calmer tide,
Will raise a solemn CENOTAPH to thee, 140
Sweet Harper of time-shrouded MINSTRELSY!
And there, sooth'd sadly by the dirgeful wind,
Muse on the sore ills I had left behind.