The boy who could thus write at sixteen, might soon have proved a Swift or a Dryden. Yet in satire, Chatterton evinced but a small part of his power. His Rowleian poems have a compass of invention, and a luxuriance of fancy, that promised a great chivalrous or allegorical poet of the stamp of Spenser. Bristow Tragedy, or the Death of Sir Charles Bawdin.* The feathered songster chanticleer And told the early villager The coming of the morn: King Edward saw the ruddy streaks And heard the raven's croaking throat, "Thou'rt right,' quoth he, 'for by the God Then with a jug of nappy ale His knights did on him wait; But when he came, his children twain, With briny tears did wet the floor, 'Oh good Sir Charles!' said Canterlone, 'Speak boldly, man,' said brave Sir Charles; 'I grieve to tell: before yon sun 'We all must die,' said brave Sir Charles; 'Of that I'm not afraid; What boots to live a little space? But tell thy king, for mine he's not, Than live his slave, as many are, Then Canterlone he did go out, Then Mr Canynge sought the king, And fell down on his knee; · 'I'm come,' quoth he, unto your grace, To move your clemency.' "Then,' quoth the king, 'your tale speak out, You have been much our friend; Whatever your request may be, We will to it attend.' *The antiquated orthography affected by Chatterton being evidently no advantage to his poems, but rather an impediment to their being generally read, we dismiss it in this and other specimens. The diction is, in reality, almost purely modern, and Chatterton's spelling in a great measure arbitrary, so that there seems no longer any reason for retaining what was only designed at first as a means of supporting a deception. 'My noble liege! all my request Is for a noble knight, Who, though mayhap he has done wrong, He has a spouse and children twain; 'Speak not of such a traitor vile,' Justice does loudly for him call, 'My noble liege!' good Canynge said, And lay the iron rule aside; Was God to search our hearts and reins, Let mercy rule thine infant reign, But if with blood and slaughter thou Thy crown upon thy children's brows 'Canynge, away! this traitor vile Has scorned my power and me; 'My noble liege! the truly brave 'Canynge, away! By God in heaven I will not taste a bit of bread Whilst this Sir Charles doth live! By Mary, and all saints in heaven, With heart brimful of gnawing grief, He to Sir Charles did go, And sat him down upon a stool, And tears began to flow. 'We all must die,' said brave Sir Charles; 'What boots it how or when? Death is the sure, the certain fate, Of all we mortal men. Say why, my friend, thy honest soul Is it for my most welcome doom 'Then dry the tears that out thine cye When through the tyrant's welcome means I shall resign my life, The God I serve will soon provide For both my sons and wife. Before I saw the lightsome sun, Shall mortal man repine or grudge How oft in battle have I stood, When thousands died around; Ah, godlike Henry! God forefend, My honest friend, my fault has been In London city was I born, I make no doubt but he is gone He taught me justice and the laws And eke he taught me how to know And summed the actions of the day I have a spouse, go ask of her I have a king, and none can lay Why should I then appear dismayed 1 Exchange. What though I on a sledge be drawn, And mangled by a hind, I do defy the traitor's power, He cannot harm my mind: What though, uphoisted on a pole, Yet in the holy book above, Then welcome death! for life eterne Now death as welcome to me comes And from this world of pain and grief And now the bell began to toll, Sir Charles he heard the horses' feet And just before the officers His loving wife came in, Weeping unfeigned tears of wo With loud and dismal din. 'Sweet Florence! now I pray forbear, Pray God that every Christian soul Sweet Florence! why these briny tears? And almost make me wish for life, "Tis but a journey I shall go Then Florence, faltering in her say, Ah, sweet Sir Charles! why wilt thou go The cruel axe that cuts thy neck, It eke shall end my life.' And now the officers came in To bring Sir Charles away, 'I go to life, and not to death, Teach them to run the noble race Florence! should death thee take-adieu! Then Florence raved as any mad, And did her tresses tear; 'Oh stay, my husband, lord, and life!'Sir Charles then dropped a tear. 'Till tired out with raving loud, With looks full brave and sweet; The friars of Saint Augustine next Bold as a lion came Sir Charles, Drawn on a cloth-laid sledde, By two black steeds in trappings white, Saint James's friars marched next, Of citizens did throng; And when he came to the high cross, Soon as the sledde drew nigh enough, By foul proceedings, murder, blood, Thou thinkest I shall die to-day; And soon shall live to wear a crown Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years, Shalt rule this fickle land, To let them know how wide the rule Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave! King Edward's soul rushed to his face, And to his brother Gloucester 'So let him die!' Duke Richard said; And now the horses gently drew His precious blood to spill. As long as Edward rules this land, You leave your good and lawful king, Like me, unto the true cause stick, And for the true cause die.' His parting soul to take. Then, kneeling down, he laid his head The able headsman stroke: One part did rot on Kinwulph-hill, The other on Saint Paul's good gate, His head was placed on the high cross, Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate: God prosper long our king, And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul, [The Minstrel's Song in Ella.] O! sing unto my roundelay; O drop the briny tear with me; Gone to his death-bed, Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree. Sweet his tongue as throstle's note, Oh! he lies by the willow tree. Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree. Hark! the raven flaps his wing, In the briered dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree. See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true-love's shroud; Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree. Here, upon my true-love's grave, All the sorrows of a maid. Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree. With my hands I'll bind the briers, Gone to his death-bed, Come with acorn cup and thorn, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree. Water-witches, crowned with reytes,2 Bear me to your deadly tide. I die I come-my true-love waits. Thus the damsel spake, and died. The mystic mazes of thy will, The shadows of celestial light, Are past the power of human skillBut what the Eternal acts is right. O teach me in the trying hour, When anguish swells the dewy tear, To still my sorrows, own thy power, 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- I'll thank the inflicter of the blow; The gloomy mantle of the night, Which God, my East, my Sun, reveals. WILLIAM FALCONER, The terrors and circumstances of a Shipwreck had been often described by poets, ancient and modern, but never with any attempt at professional accuracy or minuteness of detail, before the poem of that name by Falconer. It was reserved for a genuine sailor to disclose, in correct and harmonious verse, the secrets of the deep,' and to enlist the sympathies of the general reader in favour of the daily life and occupations of his brother seamen, and in all the movements, the equipage, and tracery of those magnificent vessels which have carried the British name and enterprise to the remotest corners of the world. Poetical associations-a feeling of boundlessness and sublimity-obviously belonged to the scene of the poem-the ocean; but its interest soon wanders from this source, and centres in the stately ship and its crew the gallant resistance which the men made to the fury of the storm-their calm and deliberate courage the various resources of their skill and ingenuity-their consultations and resolutions as the ship labours in distress-and the brave unselfish piety and generosity with which they meet their fate, when at last The crashing ribs divide-She loosens, parts, and spreads in ruin o'er the tide. Such a subject Falconer justly considered as 'new to epic lore,' but it possessed strong recommendations to the British public, whose national pride and honour are so closely identified with the sea, and so many of whom have some friend, some brother there.' WILLIAM FALCONER was born in Edinburgh in 1730, and was the son of a poor barber, who had two other children, both of whom were deaf and dumb. He went early to sea, on board a Leith merchant ship, and was afterwards in the royal navy. Before he was eighteen years of age, he was second mate in the Britannia, a vessel in the Levant trade, which was shipwrecked off Cape Colonna, as described in his poem. In 1751 he was living in Edinburgh, where he published his first poetical attempt, a monody on the death of Frederick, Prince of Wales. The choice of such a subject by a young friendless Scottish sailor, was as singular as the depth of grief he describes in his poem; for Falconer, on this occasion, wished, with a zeal worthy of ancient Pistol, To assist the pouring rains with brimful eyes, And aid hoarse howling Boreas with his sighs! In 1757 he was promoted to the quarter-deck of the Ramilies, and being now in a superior situation for cultivating his taste for learning, he was an assiduous student. Three years afterwards, Falconer suffered a second shipwreck; the Ramilies struck on the shore in the Channel while making for Plymouth, and of 734 of a crew, the poet and 25 others only escaped. In 1762 appeared his poem of The Shipwreck (which he afterwards greatly enlarged and improved), preceded by a dedication to the Duke of York. The work was eminently successful, and his royal highness procured him the appointment of midshipman on board the Royal George, whence he was subsequently transferred to the Glory, a frigate of 32 guns, on board which he held the situation of purser. After the peace, he resided in London, wrote a poor satire on Wilkes, Churchill, &c., and compiled a useful marine dictionary. In September 1769, the poet again took to the sea, and sailed from England as purser of the Aurora frigate, bound for India. The vessel reached the Cape of Good Hope in December, but afterwards perished at sea, having foundered, as is supposed, in the Mosambique Channel. No tuneful Arion' was left to commemorate this calamity, the poet having died under the circumstances he had formerly described in the case of his youthful associates of the Britannia. racters of his naval officers are finely discriminated: 'Twas genuine passion, Nature's eldest born. [From the Shipwreck.] 'The Shipwreck' has the rare merit of being The sun's bright orb, declining all serene, a pleasing and interesting poem, and a safe guide Now glanced obliquely o'er the woodland scene. to practical seamen. Its nautical rules and direc- Creation smiles around; on every spray tions are approved of by all experienced naval The warbling birds exalt their evening lay. officers. At first, the poet does not seem to have Blithe skipping o'er yon hill, the fleecy train done more than describe in nautical phrase and Join the deep chorus of the lowing plain; simple narrative the melancholy disaster he had The golden lime and orange there were seen, witnessed. The characters of Albert, Rodmond, On fragrant branches of perpetual green. Palemon, and Anna, were added in the second edi-The crystal streams, that velvet meadows lave, tion of the work. By choosing the shipwreck of To the green ocean roll with chiding wave. the Britannia, Falconer imparted a train of inte. The glassy ocean hushed forgets to roar, resting recollections and images to his poem. The But trembling murmurs on the sandy shore: wreck occurred off Cape Colonna-one of the fairest And lo! his surface, lovely to behold! portions of the beautiful shores of Greece. In all Glows in the west, a sea of living gold! itself and Marathon, there is no scene more inte- Arabian sweets perfume the happy plains: Attica,' says Lord Byron, if we except Athens While, all above, a thousand liveries gay The skies with pomp ineffable array. resting than Cape Colonna. To the antiquary and Above, beneath, around enchantment reigns! artist, sixteen columns are an inexhaustible source of observation and design; to the philosopher, the with long vibration deepen o'er the vale ; While yet the shades, on time's eternal scale, supposed scene of some of Plato's conversations will While yet the songsters of the vocal grove not be unwelcome; and the traveller will be struck With dying numbers tune the soul to love, with the beauty of the prospect over "isles that with joyful eyes the attentive master sees crown the gean deep;" but for an Englishman, The auspicious omens of an eastern breeze. Colonna has yet an additional interest, as the actual Now radiant Vesper leads the starry train, spot of Falconer's Shipwreck. Pallas and Plato are And night slow draws her veil o'er land and main; forgotten in the recollection of Falconer and Camp- Round the charged bowl the sailors form a ring; By turns recount the wondrous tale, or sing; As love or battle, hardships of the main, Or genial wine, awake their homely strain: Then some the watch of night alternate keep, The rest lie buried in oblivious sleep. bell Here in the dead of night by Lonna's steep, The seaman's cry was heard along the deep.'* Falconer was not insensible to the charms of these historical and classic associations, and he was still more alive to the impressions of romantic scenery and a genial climate. Some of the descriptive and episodical parts of the poem are, however, drawn out to too great a length, as they interrupt the narrative where its interest is most engrossing, besides being occasionally feeble and affected. The cha * Pleasures of Hope. Deep midnight now involves the livid skies, |