To Chatterton

O Chatterton, how very sad thy fate!

   Dear child of sorrow—son of misery!

   How soon the film of death obscured that eye,

Whence genius wildly flashed, and high debate.

How soon that voice, majestic and elate,

   Melted in dying murmurs! Oh, how nigh

   Was night to thy fair morning! Thou didst die

A half-blown floweret which cold blasts amate.

But this is past; thou art among the stars

   Of highest heaven; to the rolling spheres

Thou sweetly singest; naught thy hymning mars,

   Above the ingrate world and human fears.

On earth the good man base detraction bars

   From thy fair name and waters it with tears.