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, 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, 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 Sir Canterlone then bended low, But when he came, his children twain, 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 "We all must die," said brave Sir Charles; "Of that I'm not afraid; What boots to live a little space? But tell thy king, for mine he's not, Than live his slave, as many are, We all must die," said brave Sir Charles; Death is the sure, the certain fate, Say why, my friend, thy honest soul Is it for my most welcome doom Saith godly Canynge, "I do weep, And leave thy sons and hapless wife; "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; I make no doubt but he is gone Where we for ever shall be blest, He taught me justice and the laws And eke he taught me how to know He taught me with a prudent hand And none can say but all my life And summ'd the actions of the day What though I on a sled be drawn, I do defy the traitor's power, What though, uphoisted on a pole, And no rich monument of brass Yet in the holy book above, Which time can't eat away, There, with the servants of the Lord, Then, welcome death! for life eterne Farewell, vain world, and all that's dear, Now death as welcome to me comes As e'er the month of May; Nor would I even wish to live, Saith Canynge, "'Tis a goodly thing 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, Pray God that every Christian soul Sweet Florence! why these briny tears? They wash my soul away, And almost make me wish for life, 'Tis but a journey I shall go Unto the land of bliss; Now, as a proof of husband's love, Then Florence, faltering in her say, Ah, sweet Sir Charles! why wilt thou go The cruel axe that cuts thy neck, And now the officers came in 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, 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, Then five-and-twenty archers came; Bold as a lion came Sir Charles, By two black steeds in trappings white, Behind him five-and-twenty more And after them a multitude Of citizens did throng; The windows were all full of heads, And when he came to the high cross, At the great minster window sat Soon as the sled drew nigh enough, The brave Sir Charles he did stand up, "Thou seest me, Edward! traitor vile! But be assured, disloyal man, I'm greater now than thee. By foul proceedings, murder, blood, 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. |