JUGA.

Whan mokie cloudis do hange upon the leme
Of leden Moon, ynn sylver mantels dyghte;
The tryppeynge faeries weve the golden dreme
Of happinesse, whyche flyethe wythe the nyghte;
Thenne (botte the Seynetes forbydde!) gif to a spryte
Syrr Rychardes forme ys lyped, I'll holde dystraughte
Hys bledeynge claie-colde corse, and die eche daie ynn thoughte.

ELINOURE.

Ah! woe bementynge wordes; what wordes can shewe!
Thou limed ryver, on thie lynche maie bleede
Champyons, whose bloude wylle wythe thie waterres flowe,
And Rudborne streeme be Rudborne streeme indeede!
Haste, gentle Juga, tryppe ytte oere the meade,
To knowe, or whether we muste waile agayne,

Or wythe oure fallen knyghtes be menged onne the plain.

So sayinge, lyke twa levyn-blasted trees,

Or twayne of cloudes that holdeth stormie rayne ;
Theie moved gentle oere the dewie mees,

To where Seyncte Albons holie shrynes remayne.

There dyd theye fynde that bothe their knyghtes were sleyne,
Distraughte theie wandered to swollen Rudborne's syde,
Yelled theyre leathalle knelle, sonke ynn the waves,

and dyde.

"This pastoral Elinoure and Juga," says Dr. Gregory, "is one of the finest pathetic tales I have ever read. The complaint of two young females lamenting their lovers slain in the wars of York and Lancaster, was one of the happiest subjects that could be chosen for a tragic pastoral." But it failed to draw from Horace Walpole the attention which it merited; he was struck with the poetical turn which its author (whether Rowley or Chatterton) exhibited, but, nevertheless, entertained strong doubts of its authenticity. These doubts were confirmed, when, on showing both the pieces to his friends, Mason and Gray, the poets, they at once pronounced them forgeries. With a cold and cruel neglect, which cannot be even excused by disguising it, as many of the enemies of Chatterton have wished to do, under the veil of apathy with which the author of "the royal and noble authors" regarded literary men in general, he took no notice of the matter, further than by sending a frigid reply, advising Chatterton to prosecute the studies which were necessary for his profession. He then made a tour to France, and on returning back, after an interval of some months, found an indignant letter from Chatterton, demanding back the MSS., and adding "that Mr. Walpole would not have dared to use him so ill, had he not been acquainted with the narrowness of his circumstances." Walpole, offended by this epistle, written in what he calls "a singularly impertinent style," returned the MSS. in a blank cover, and thus concluded the business. The conduct of Lord Orford with regard to Chatterton has been defended-nay, he has endeavoured to defend himself! but, in the eyes of all reflecting judges, he has failed, and failed most miserably: "I wrote him a letter with as much kindness and tenderness as if I had been his

guardian," he remarks. It is false ! The letter which he sent to Chatterton was as frigid as his own heart. This account, which he desired should be believed by the public, does not agree with the epithet which he applied to Chatterton, in a letter written by him to a friend, and which he little thought, at the time he penned it, would ever be published. He there calls him, not the "poor young man," "the marvellous boy," but the "little rascal.” The former tender sobriquet was intended for the perusal of the public, and was written in his own defence; the latter compassionate morceau was to meet the eyes of an acquaintance, who would, as a matter of course, burn the letter as soon as read. It was not burnt however, and it now appears among the collected, and "justly admired" epistles of the "Knight of Strawberry Hill."

Chatterton was repulsed, but not dismayed: from time to time he continued to bring forward gems and snatches of exquisite song, rich with impassioned thought and glowing poetry; all written in the same obsolete language, and breathing the same air of antiquity. The best judges were deceived by them; the most infallible antiquarians were led astray. It is indeed amusing to witness the squabbles which these poems occasioned throughout England, for years after Chatterton's death. The following fragment, which was produced about this period, is incomparably fine :—

ODE, OR CHORUS IN THE TRAGEDY OF GODDWYN.

When freedome, dreste yn blodde-steyned veste,

To everie knyghte her warre-songe sunge,
Uponne her hedde wylde wedes were spredde,
A gorie anlace bye her honge.

She daunced onne the heathe;

She hearde the voice of deathe;

Pale-eyned affryghte, hys harte of sylver hue,
In vayne assayled her bosomme to acale;

She hearde onflemed the shriekinge voice of woe,
And sadnesse ynne the owlette shake the dale.
She shooke the burled speere,

On hie she cast her sheelde,

Her foemen all appere,

And fly alonge the feelde.

Power, with his heafod straught into the skies,
Hys speere a sonne-beame, and his sheelde a starre,
Alyche twaie brendeynge gronfyres roll hys eyes,
Stamps with hys yronne feete and soundes to war.
She syttes upon a rocke,
She bendes before hys speere,
She rises from the shocke,
Wielding her owne in ayre.

We cannot resist the temptation of selecting a few stanzas from the exquisite "Ballade of Charitie," "an imitation," observes Dr. Gregory, "of the most beautiful and affecting of our Saviour's parables, the March 1839.-VOL. I.—NO. I.

C

good Samaritan." How picturesque and true to nature are the poetical descriptions! how vivid the fancy which conceived them! We feel the horror of the dark cold night; we see "the big drops fall," and the "full flocks driving o'er the plain,' "the welkin opens, and the yellow lightning flies." This was the poem which Chatterton intended should describe his own deserted condition, should embody the associations connected with his utterly desolate and "woe-begone" pilgrimage.1

And oh ! when we picture to ourselves the poor but erring offspring of genius, sitting in his cold and cheerless apartment, illuminated only by the flickering rays of a dim and solitary rushlight-an apartment which, with all its comfortless and inhospitable penury, he was necessitated to occupy-and portray him to our imagination, his flushed cheek and flashing eye, feeding with deep thought and inspired conception, the seared and heated brain which shrunk beneath the vastness of its own invention; let us forget the impostor in the enthusiast, and forgive the falsehood of his reverie, for its beauty and ingenuity."

AN EXCELENTE BALLADE OF CHARITIE.

AS WROTEN BIE THE GODE PRIESTE THOMAS ROWLIE, 1464.
(This poem is taken from a single sheet in Chatterton's handwriting.)

"In Virgyne the sweltrie sun gan sheene,

And hotte upon the mees did caste his raie ;
The apple reddened from its palie greene,
And the softe peare did bende the leafy spraie ;

The peede chelandri sunge the lyvelong daie ;
'Twas now the pryde, the manhode of the yeare,
And eke the grounde was dighte in its most defte aumere.

And now storms begin to arise;" clouds of sable sullen hue" come up from the sea, spreading their black canopy far and wide over the heavens-dark, dark, yes, fearfully dark and threatening; the disk of the sun is hidden by the mist and vapour which rises, like Thetis, from the ocean. And is there any unprotected, unsheltered traveller, to bide the pitiless fury of the blast? Oh, yes!

Beneathe an holme, faste by a pathwaie side,

Which did unto Seyncte Godwine's convent lede,
A hapless pilgrim moneynge dyd abide,

Pore in his viewe, ungentle in his weede

*

*

Where from the hail-stone coulde the almer flie?
He had no housen there, ne anie convent nie.

Looke in his clouded face, his sprighte there scanne ;
How woe-be-gone, how withered, forwynd, deade!
Haste to thie church-glebe-house, asshrewed manne!
Haste to thie kiste, thie onlie dortoure bedde,
Cold, as the claie which will grow on thie hedde
Is charitie and love amonge highe elves;

Knightis and barons live for pleasure and themselves.

This poem, "The Balade of Charitie," was sent by Chatterton to the printer a few weeks before his miserable death.

The storm increases;- horrida tempestas cœlum contraxit.' The lightning, forked and dazzling, pierces through the gloom, making the darkness doubly dark by the vivid contrast; and the thunder-we hear it rumbling, crashing along, in the sombre cadence of the verse, a true onomatopoeia in English poetry; and the wind, and rain. Where shall this almer go? Is there no one to give him shelter?

Spurreynge his palfrie oere the watrie plaine,

The abbote of Seyncte Godwynes convente came;
His chapournette was drented wyth the raine,

*

An almes, sir prieste! the droppynge pilgrim saide;
O! let me waite within your convent doore
Till the sun shineth hie above our heade,
And the loud tempeste of the aire is o'er;
Helpless and ould am I, alas! and poor.

And helpless and poor he may remain. How could the princely Abbot stop his pace to notice such a pilgrim? Presumptuous thought! But let us proceed.

Once more the skie was blacke, the thunder rolde,
Faste reyneynge oere the plaine a prieste was seen;
Ne deighte full proude, ne buttoned up in golde,
His cope and jape were graie, and eke were clene;
A Limitoure he was of order seene;

And from the pathwaie side then turned hee,

Where the pore almer laie binethe the holmen tree.

This is the good Samaritan: the priest and Levite had beheld the supplicant, and passed by on the other side; but here comes the kind and the generous hearted, to bind up the wounds which wretchedness and poverty had inflicted, and to heal them with the oil and wine of consolation.

An almes, sir priest! the droppynge pilgrim sayde,
For sweete seyncte Marie, and your order sake :-
The Limitoure then loosend his pouche threade,
And dyd thereoute a groate of silver take;

*

*

*

*

Here take this sylver, it may ease thie care;

We are Godde's stewards all-nought of oure owne we beare.

Before we proceed with the history of Chatterton, we wish to make our readers acquainted with some of his poems, written in modern English and in his own name. We select his translation of two odes of Horace.

HOR. Lib. I. Od. 19.

Yes! I am caught, my melting soul
To Venus bends without control,

I pour th' impassioned sigh.

Ye Gods! what throbs my bosom move,
Responsive to the glance of love

That beams from Stella's eye.

O how divinely fair that face,
And what a sweet resistless grace
On every feature dwells;

And on those features all the while,
The softness of each frequent smile,
Her sweet good nature tells.

O Love! I'm thine, no more I sing
Heroic deeds-the sounding string
Forgets its wonted strain;
For aught but love the lyre's unstrung,
Love melts and trembles on my tongue,
And thrills in every vein.

Invoking the propitious skies,
The green sod altar let us rise;
Let holy incense smoke.

And if we pour the sparkling wine,

Sweet gentle peace may still be mine,
This dreadful chain be broke.

This translation is most exquisitely done: it excels that of Francis, and all others who have rendered Horace into metre. But we will present our readers with another.

LIB. I. ODE 5.

What gentle youth, my lovely fair-one, say,

With sweets perfum'd, now courts thee to the bow'r;

Where glows with lustre red the rose of May,

To form thy couch in love's enchanting hour?

By zephyrs waved, why does thy loose hair sweep,
In simple curls around thy polish'd brow?
The wretch that loves thee now, too soon shall weep
Thy faithless beauty, and thy broken vow.

Though soft the beams of thy delusive eyes,

As the smooth surface of the untroubled stream;
Yet, ah! too soon th' ecstatic vision flies,
Flies like the fairy paintings of a dream.

Unhappy youth! oh, shun the warm embrace,
Nor trust too much affection's flattering smile;
Dark poison lurks beneath that charming face,
Those melting eyes but languish to beguile.

The whole of this is beautiful, and as literal as the grace and elegance of the language will permit. The history of these translations is nearly as wonderful as their execution. When Chatterton was only sixteen years old, a gentleman, to whom he had been introduced, both as a promising young poet himself, and a discoverer of some ancient and valuable poetical MSS., lent him Watson's prose version of the Odes of the Sabine bard. Chatterton perused the book, and returned it to his friend with these splendid paraphrases. He did not know one word of Latin; and more than once determined to com