Oh Chatterton! how gay thy morn arose! Bright on thy youth celestial Genius smil'd, But Poverty thy heart's warm current froze, And Misery clasp'd thee, her devoted child; Urg'd, while thy lips the poison'd chalice drain'd, And on thy wasting form each lurid eye-ball strain'd:
Yet from thy breast tho' each fair form was fled, Pride held her state in thy unconquer'd soul— "What! shall I, bending low my laurel'd head, From affluence beg a slowly yielded dole, From pity's boon life's poor support obtain, Or drag its weary load in flattery's helot train!"
