When to the region of the tuneful Nine,
Rapt in poetic vision, I retire,
Listening intent to catch the strain divine
What a dead silence hangs upon the lyre!
Lo! with disorder'd locks, and streaming eyes,
Stray the fair daughters of immortal song;
Aonia's realm resounds their plaintive cries,
And all her murmuring rills the grief prolong.
O say! celestial maids, what cause of wo?
Why cease the rapture-breathing strains to soar?
A solemn pause ensues: then falters low
The voice of sorrow: 'Chatterton's no more!'
'Child of our fondest hopes! whose natal hour
Saw each poetic star indulgent shine;
E'en Phoebus' self o'erruled with kindliest power,
And cried: "ye Nine rejoice! the Birth is mine."
'Soon did he drink of this inspiring spring;
In yonder bower his lisping notes he tried;
We tuned his tongue in choir with us to sing,
And watch'd his progress with delight and pride.
'With doting care we form'd his ripening mind,
Blest with high gifts to mortals rarely known;
Taught him to range, by matter unconfined,
And claim the world of fancy for his own.
'The voice of Glory call'd him to the race;
Upsprung the wondrous Boy with ardent soul,
Started at once with more than human pace,
And urged his flight, impatient for the goal:
'Hope sung her siren lay; the listening Youth
Felt all his breast with rapturous frenzy fired,
He hail'd, and boasted, as prophetic truth,
The bright, triumphant vision Hope inspired:
'But short, alas, his transport! vain his boast!
The illusive dream soon vanishes in shade;
Soon dire Adversity's relentless host,
Neglect, Want, Sorrow, Shame, his peace invade:
'Glad Envy hisses, Ridicule and Scorn
Lash with envenom'd scourge his wounded pride;
Ah! see him, with distracted mien forlorn,
Rush into solitude his pangs to hide.
'There to the Youth, disguised like Hope, Despair
Presents the death-fraught chalice and retires:
In vain, alas! Religion cries, forbear!
Desperate he seizes, drains it, and expires.'