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Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,

The biscuit, or confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd:
All this, and more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interpos'd too often makes;
All this still legible in mem'ry's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorn'd in Heav'n, though little notic'd here.
Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture's tissu'd flow'rs,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I prick'd them into paper with a pin,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile)
Could those few pleasant days again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might.-
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be lov'd, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again..

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd)
Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle,
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore,
"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,"
And thy lov'd consort on the dang'rous tide
of life long since has anchor'd by thy side.

But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distress'd-
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd,
Sails ripp'd, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course.
Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not, that I deduce my birth
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the Earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise-
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.
And now, farewell-Time unrevok'd has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem'd t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again;
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;

And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself remov'd, thy pow'r to soothe me left.


THE twentieth year is well nigh past,

Since first our sky was overcast,

Ah would that this might be the last!

My Mary!

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For though thou gladly would'st fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,

My Mary!
But well thou play'd'st the huswife's part,
And all thy threads with magic art,
Have wound themselves about this heart,

My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem

Like language utter'd in a dream;

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,

My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,

My Mary!

For could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,

Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently prest, press gently mine,

My Mary!

My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st,
That now, at every step thou mov'st
Upheld by two, yet still thou lov'st,

My Mary!

And still to love, though prest with ill;

In wint'ry age to feel no chill,

With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know,
How oft the sadness that I show,
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,

My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,
Thy worn-out heart will break at last,

My Mary!


WRITTEN UNDER THE NAME OF ROWLEY. Supposed to have flourished in the 14th Century.*



WHANNE Englonde, smeethyngea from her

lethalb wounde,

From her galled necke dyd twyttee the chayne awaie,

Kennynged her legeful sonnes falle all arounde, (Myghtie theie fell, 'twas Honoure ledde the fraie,) Thanne inne a dale, bie eve's dark surcotee graie, Twayne lonelie shepsterresƒ dyd abroddeng tlie (The rostlyngh liff doth theyr whytte hartes affraiei,)

And wythe the owlette trembled and dyd crie; Firste Roberte Neatherde hys sore boesom stroke, Then fellen on the grounde and thus yspoke.


Ah, Raufe! gif thos the howres do comme alonge, Gif thos wee flie in chase of farther woe, Oure fote wylle fayle, albeytte wee bee stronge, Ne wylle oure pace swefte as oure danger goe. c Pluck or pull; twitch. f Shepherds.

a Smoking. d Seeing.

g Abruptly.

b Deadly.
e A cloke or mantle.

h Rustling.

i Affright.

* These Poems, considered as the productions of Chatterton, should have been inserted much earlier in this volume; but their apparent antiquity seemed to make them ill placed among modern poems. To have given them as specimens of our early poetry, if written by a modern, would have been absurd. Under this dilemma, they have been thrown to the end of the work.

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To oure grete wronges wee have enheped moe, The Baronnes warre! oh! woe and well-a-daie! I haveth lyff, bott have escaped soe

That lyff ytsel mie Senses doe affraie

Oh Raufe, comme lyste, and hear mie dernie / tale, Come heare the balefullm dome of Robynne of the dale.


Saie to mee nete;n I kenne thie woe in myne; Oh! I've a tale that Sabalus o motep telle. Swote flouretts, mantled meedows, forestes dygne; r

Gravots s far-kendt arounde the Errmiets u cell; The swote ribibler dynningy yn the dell; The joyous daunceynge ynn the hoastriez courte; Eke a the highe songe and everych joie farewell, Farewell the verie shade of fayre dysporte¿: Impestering c trobble onn mie heade doe comme, Ne on kynde Seyncte to warded the ayee encreasynge dome.


Oh! I coulde waile mie kynge-coppe-decked meesƒ, Mie spreedynge flockes of shepe of lillie white, Mie tendre applyngesg, and embodydeh trees, Mie Parker's Grange, i far spreedynge to the syghte, Mie cuyenk kynel, mie bullockes stringem yn fyghte,

Mie gornen emblaunched with the comfreiep plante,

Mie floure Seyncte Marieq shotteyngr wythe the lyghte,

Mie store of all the blessynges Heaven can grant.

k Added. p Might. 9 Sweet. r Good, neat. u Hermit. Violin. y Sounding. b Pleasure.

1 Sad. m Woeful.

a Also.

e Ever, always,

h Thick, stout.

k Tender.

n Nought. o The Devil.

s Groves. t Far-seen. z Inn, or public-house. c Annoying. d To keep off. g Grafted trees. i Liberty of pasture given to the Parker, 7 Cows. n Garden.

f Meadows.

m Strong.

• Whitened, blanched. p Cumfrey, a favourite dish at that q Marygold, r Shutting.


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