undoubtedly have rendered comfortable and happy.  Unknown and miserable while alive, he now calls forth curiosity and attention.  Men of wit and learning employ themselves to celebrate his talents, and to express their approbation of his writings.  Hard indeed was his fate, born to adorn the times in which he lived, yet compelled to fall a victim to pride and poverty!  His destiny, cruel as it was, gives a charm to his verses; and while the bright thought excites admiration, the recollection of his miseries awakens a tender sympathy and sorrow.  Who would not wish that he had been so fortunate as to relieve a fellow creature so accomplished, from wretchedness, despair, and suicide?

WRITTEN ON VIEWING THE PORTRAIT OF CHATTERTON.

  Ah! what a contrast in that face portray’d,
  Where care and study cast alternate shade;
  But view it well, and ask thy heart the cause,
  Then chide, with honest warmth, that cold applause
  Which counteracts the fostering breath of praise,
  And shades with cypress the young poet’s bays: 
  Pale and dejected, mark, how genius strives
  With poverty, and mark, how well it thrives;
  The shabby cov’ring of the gentle bard,
  Regard it well, ’tis worthy thy regard,
  The friendly cobweb, serving for a screen,
  The chair, a part of what it once had been;
  The bed, whereon th’ unhappy victim slept
  And oft unseen, in silent anguish, wept,
  Or spent in dear delusive dreams, the night,
  To wake, next morning, but to curse the light,
  Too deep distress the artist’s hand reveals;
  But like a friend’s the black’ning deed conceals;
  Thus justice, to mild complacency bends,
  And candour, all harsh influence, suspends. 
  Enthron’d, supreme in judgment, mercy sits,
  And, in one breath condemns, applauds, acquits: 
  Whoe’er thou art, that shalt this face survey,
  And turn, with cold disgust, thine eyes away. 
  Then bless thyself, that sloth and ignorance bred
  Thee up in safety, and with plenty fed,
  Peace to thy mem’ry! may the sable plume
  Of dulness, round thy forehead ever bloom;
  May’st thou, nor can I wish a greater curse;
  Live full despis’d, and die without a nurse;
  Or, if same wither’d hag, for sake of hire,
  Should wash thy sheets, and cleanse thee from the mire,
  Let her, when hunger peevishly demands
  The dainty morsel from her barb’rous hands,
  Insult, with hellish mirth, thy craving maw
  And snatch it to herself, and call it law,
  Till pinching famine waste thee to the bone
  And break, at last, that solid heart of stone.

* * * * *

LAY OF THE WANDERING ARAB.

  “Away, away, my barb and I,”
    As free as wave, as fleet as wind,
  We sweep the sands of Araby,
    And leave a world of slaves behind.

  ’Tis mine to range in this wild garb,
    Nor e’er feel lonely though alone;
  I would not change my Arab barb,
    To mount a drowsy Sultan’s throne.