Lines on Chatterton

Ah, who can tell wat ills that man surround, Who dares attempt Parnassus' steep to clime To tread with eager steps the classic ground. Where the blest Muse inspires with lore sublime, Here supplicating sons, of every age and clime?

On him her poisonous darts will malice throw: On him will envy look with leering eye; And while the few the Poet's beauties know, His faults alone the many will descry, And half the Muse's charms unseen, neglected lie.

So past, ill fated CHATTERTON, thy days, Few gloomy days of wretched care & woe; Unblest with ought of patronage or praise, Which learning's sons to genius ever owe, "Ah! cold thou liest in the grave below."

Where were ye then, to whom wealth's portions fall? Whose spacious domes the hands of affluence fill, Why heard ye not the Muses' sacred call? Why suffered penury's frost his warmth to chill; And cruel, cold neglect the opening rose to kill?