Classic Poem

The shining ice had bridged the pool,
And pencill'd o'er the pane,
Bringing the last leaf from the tree
In garden-bower and lane.
The streets were cold through which we pass'd
To seek in pilgrim round
The monument of Chatterton
In Redcliff's solemn ground.

Soon wondering near the church we stood,
Now stain'd and mark'd by time,
Immortalized by him whose song
Grew silent in his prime;
And feelings I cannot describe
With pencil or with pen,
As mournful as the sighing winds,
Came rushing o'er me then.

O noble pile! O noble place!
What deeds to thee belong!
But chief I prize thee for the boy
Who hung thy walls with song, —
That boy whose soul was like a fire,
Whose genius like a sun,
Alas! alas! eclipsed in death,
When life had just begun.

Methinks I see him standing here,
Beneath thy arches grand,
With boyhood's wonder in his gaze,
When moonlight fill'd the land,
And silver'd o'er the city roofs,
Entranced with thought sublime,
Which in the land of lays will live
Until the end of time.

O boy, with noblest gifts endow'd,
How smooth thy path might be,
If Love had reach'd her kindly hand,
Just as she ought, to thee!
Who knows but in the way of life
Thy youthful feet had trod,
And all thine energies been given
To holiness and God?

When musing 'mid my mountain broom,
I oft have thought of thee:
If Bible-light had filled thy soul,
How bright thy path would be!
Thy mother's heart thou wouldst have cheer'd
With long, full years of joy,
And England would be proud of thee,
Thou poor ill-fated boy.

No friendly tongue to soothe thine ear,
No light on thee to shine:
How dark this winter of neglect
To such a soul as thine!
And who more sensitive than he,
The pensive bard and true?
When thought was budding into song,
Have I not felt it too?

Even now, where minstrel hath small heed,
Though crisp my autumn years,
Amid the rustling vest of pride,
I wipe away my tears.
BuThe who bless'd me with my harp,
And bade me frame my lay
In honour of His own great name,
Will guide me on my way.

Poor gifted boy, thy native place
Had small regard for thee;
Thou in a garret's gloom didst quaff
The draught of misery:
And now they raise thy monument,
In boy-weeds looking down,
With mutely mournful sad rebuke.
On the great smoky town.

O Chatterton! O Chatterton!
How soon thy race was o'er;
Pale Pity by thy monument
Weeps tear-drops evermore.
I saw a little beggar-boy,
With blue half-covered limb,
Under his Gothic pedestal,
And then I thought of him.

O! learn we not from fate so sad
That talents great or small
Should be employ'd with usury
For Him who giveth all?
O! hear Him from the Book Divine:
" Whoever honour Me,
And give to Heaven what they receive,
All those shall honour'd be. "