Thomas Chatterton
WITH Shakspeare’s manhood at a boy’s wild heart,—
Through Hamlet’s doubt to Shakspeare near allied,
And kin to Milton through his Satan’s pride,—
At Death’s sole door he stooped, and craved a dart;
And to the dear new bower of England’s art,—
Even to that shrine Time else had deified,
The unuttered heart that soared against his side,—
Drove the fell point, and smote life’s seals apart.
Thy nested home—loves, noble Chatterton;
The angel—trodden stair thy soul could trace
Up Redcliffe’s spire; and in the world’s armed space
Thy gallant sword—play:—these to many an one
Are sweet for ever; as thy grave unknown
And love—dream of thine unrecorded face.
