his genius," says Campbell, "I would rather lean to the utmost enthusiasm of his admirers, than to the cold opinion of those, who are afraid of being blinded to the defects of the poems attributed to Rowley, by the veil of obsolete phraseology which is thrown over them. If we look to the ballad of Sir Charles Bawdin, and translate it into modern English, we shall find its strength and interest to have no dependence on obsolete words. In the striking passage of the martyr Bawdin standing erect in his car to rebuke Edward, who beheld him from the window, when

'The tyrant's soul rush'd to his face,'

and when he exclaimed,

'Behold the man! he speaks the truth,
He's greater than a king;'

in these, and in all striking parts of the ballad, no effect is owing to mock antiquity, but to the simple and high conception of a great and just character, who

'Summ'd the actions of the day,
Each night before he slept.'

What a moral portraiture from the hand of a boy! The inequality of Chatterton's various productions may be compared to the disproportions of the ungrown giant. His works had nothing of the definite neatness of that precocious talent which stops in early maturity. His thirst for knowledge was that of a being taught by instinct to lay up materials for the exercise of great and undeveloped powers. Even in his favorite maxim, pushed it might be to hyperbole, that a man by abstinence and perseverance might accomplish whatever he pleased, may be traced the indications of a genius which nature had meant to achieve works of immortality. Tasso alone can be compared to him as a juvenile prodigy. No English poet ever equalled him at the same age."1

DEATH OF SIR CHARLES BAWDIN.

The feather'd songster chanticleer

Had wound his bugle-horn,

And told the early villager

The coming of the morn:

King Edward saw the ruddy streaks

Of light eclipse the gray,

And heard the raven's croaking throat,

Proclaim the fated day.

"Thou'rt right," quoth he, " for by the God

That sits enthroned on high!

Charles Bawdin, and his fellows twain,

To-day shall surely die."

ments from this indirect mode of exercising his abilities: or he might have sacrificed even the vanity of appearing in the character of an applauded original author, to the private enjoyment of the success of his invention and dexterity." Warton.

1 For papers on the authenticity of the Rowleian poems, read-Campbell's "Specimens," vi. 152162; Warton's "History of English Poetry," vol. ii. section xxvi.; "An Essay on the Evidence, external and internal, relating to the Poems attributed to Thomas Rowley," by T. J. Mathias, and "The Life of Thomas Chatterton, with Criticisms on his Genius and Writings, and a Concise View of the Controversy concerning Rowley's Poems," by George Gregory, D. D.

Then with a jug of nappy ale
His knights did on him wait;
"Go tell the traitor, that to-day
He leaves this mortal state."

Sir Canterlone then bended low,
With heart brimful of wo;
He journey'd to the castle-gate,
And to Sir Charles did go.

But when he came, his children twain,
And eke his loving wife,

With briny tears did wet the floor,

For good Sir Charles's life.

"Oh good Sir Charles!" said Canterlone,

"Bad tidings I do bring."

"Speak boldly, man," said brave Sir Charles; "What says the traitor king?"

"I grieve to tell: before yon sun
Does from the welkin fly,
He hath upon his honor sworn,
That thou shalt surely die."

"We all must die," said brave Sir Charles;

"Of that I'm not afraid;

What boots to live a little space?
Thank Jesus, I'm prepared.

But tell thy king, for mine he's not,
I'd sooner die to-day,

Than live his slave, as many are,
Though I should live for aye.

We all must die," said brave Sir Charles;
"What boots it how or when?

Death is the sure, the certain fate,
Of all we mortal men.

Say why, my friend, thy honest soul
Runs over at thine eye;

Is it for my most welcome doom
That thou dost child-like cry?"

Saith godly Canynge, "I do weep,
That thou so soon must die,

And leave thy sons and hapless wife;
'Tis this that wets mine eye."

"Then dry the tears that out thine eye

From godly fountains spring;

Death I despise, and all the power

Of Edward, traitor king.

When through the tyrant's welcome means

I shall resign my life,

The God I serve will soon provide

For both my sons and wife.

In London city was I born,

Of parents of great note;
My father did a noble arms
Emblazon on his coat:

I make no doubt but he is gone
Where soon I hope to go,

Where we for ever shall be blest,
From out the reach of woe.

He taught me justice and the laws
With pity to unite;

And eke he taught me how to know
The wrong cause from the right:

He taught me with a prudent hand
To feed the hungry poor,
Nor let my servants drive away
The hungry from my door:

And none can say but all my life
I have his wordis kept;

And summ'd the actions of the day
Each night before I slept.

What though I on a sled be drawn,
And mangled by a hind,

I do defy the traitor's power,
He cannot harm my mind:

What though, uphoisted on a pole,
My limbs shall rot in air,

And no rich monument of brass
Charles Bawdin's name shall bear;

Yet in the holy book above,

Which time can't eat away,

There, with the servants of the Lord,
My name shall live for aye.

Then, welcome death! for life eterne
I leave this mortal life:

Farewell, vain world, and all that's dear,
My sons and loving wife!

Now death as welcome to me comes

As e'er the month of May;

Nor would I even wish to live,
With my dear wife to stay."

Saith Canynge, "'Tis a goodly thing
To be prepared to die;

And from this world of pain and grief

To God in heaven to fly."

And now the bell began to toll,

And clarions to sound;

Sir Charles he heard the horses' feet

A-prancing on the ground.

And just before the officers

His loving wife came in, Weeping unfeigned tears of wo With loud and dismal din.

"Sweet Florence! now I pray forbear,
In quiet let me die;

Pray God that every Christian soul
May look on death as I.

Sweet Florence! why these briny tears?

They wash my soul away,

And almost make me wish for life,
With thee, sweet dame, to stay.

'Tis but a journey I shall go

Unto the land of bliss;

Now, as a proof of husband's love,
Receive this holy kiss."

Then Florence, faltering in her say,
Trembling these wordis spoke:
"Ah, cruel Edward! bloody king!
My heart is wellnigh broke.

Ah, sweet Sir Charles! why wilt thou go
Without thy loving wife?

The cruel axe that cuts thy neck,
It eke shall end my life."

And now the officers came in
To bring Sir Charles away,
Who turned to his loving wife,
And thus to her did say:

Teach them to run the noble race

That I their father run,

Florence! should death thee take-adieu! Ye officers, lead on."

Then Florence raved as any mad,

And did her tresses tear;

"Oh stay, my husband, lord, and life!"—

Sir Charles then dropp'd a tear.

Till tired out with raving loud,

She fell upon the floor;

Sir Charles exerted all his might,
And march'd from out the door.

Upon a sled he mounted then,

With looks full brave and sweet; Looks that enshone no more concern Than any in the street.

Before him went the council-men,
In scarlet robes and gold,
And tassels spangling in the sun,
Much glorious to behold.

Then five-and-twenty archers came;
Each one the bow did bend,
From rescue of King Henry's friends
Sir Charles for to defend.

Bold as a lion came Sir Charles,
Drawn on a cloth-laid sled,

By two black steeds in trappings white,
With plumes upon their head.

Behind him five-and-twenty more
Of archers strong and stout,
With bended bow each one in hand,
Marched in goodly rout.

And after them a multitude

Of citizens did throng;

The windows were all full of heads,
As he did pass along.

And when he came to the high cross,
Sir Charles did turn and say,
"O Thou that savest man from sin,
Wash my soul clean this day."

At the great minster window sat
The king in mickle state,
To see Charles Bawdin go along
To his most welcome fate.

Soon as the sled drew nigh enough,
That Edward he might hear,

The brave Sir Charles he did stand up,
And thus his words declare:

"Thou seest me, Edward! traitor vile!
Exposed to infamy;

But be assured, disloyal man,

I'm greater now than thee.

By foul proceedings, murder, blood,
Thou wearest now a crown;
And hast appointed me to die
By power not thine own.

Thou thinkest I shall die to-day;

I have been dead till now,

And soon shall live to wear a crown

For aye upon my brow;

Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years

Shalt rule this fickle land,

To let them know how wide the rule

'Twixt king and tyrant hand.