Chatterton

“I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride.” --Wordsworth.

He dreamed of Mendip Hills, and woods So deep, storm-barriers on the sky Are not more dark, that rain their floods From clouds of sullen dye:

And Somerset, where sparsely grew Gnarled, iron-colored oaks, with rifts, Between old boughs, of April blue: Ways where the speedwell lifts

Its bit of heav’n; and, spreading far,-- The gold, the fallen gold of dawn Held captive in each cowslip’s star,-- The meadows led him on.

Where, round his feet, the lady-smock And pearl-pale lady-slipper crept; Where butterflies, pied-wing’d, did rock, Or, seal-brown, sucked and slept.

O’er which the west shot crooked fire Athwart a half-moon leaning low; While one white, arrowy star throbbed higher In curdled honey-glow.

Was it some elfin euphrasy That purged his sight and said, “Prepare! See where the daisies beckon thee; The harebells ring to prayer?

“Come here and dream! far from the roofs, The grime and smoke of London Town, That monster, with its myriad hoofs, That grinds the poet down!”

Not different from his days our days, That break the poet’s heart. No love Or pity after death repays The soul that failed and strove.

They found him dead his songs beside, Long stairs above the din and dust Of life: and that for which he died Denied him even a crust.