Accept, O Chatterton, too late, the wreath Which will not flourish upon Rowley's tomb; Born 'ere our rugged language glow'd beneath The mellowing touch of Time, and caught the bloom Of polish'd diction; born 'ere numbers sweet Measur'd the varied round, in harmony complete: And ere to philosophic rule allied, Our poesy the vague ideas taught To know their rank: ere yet inventive pride Burst the dark prison of the fetter'd thought. Accept, ill-fated youth, to grace thy name, The just, the dear-bought guerdon of disastrous fame! Rich, flowery, nervous, plaintive, gay, sublime; In sentiment and manners deeply skill'd Had but our earlier ages learn'd to climb Those heights, and that wide maze of knowledge fill'd, Which to thy infant genius Fate display'd Thy artful mimic theft had not itself betray'd? But now, tho' antique gloom incrust the pile, Wrought by thy hands, still beams thro' the disguise Th' internal symmetry, and mocks the toil Which offered motley ruins to our eyes: Thy genius, form'd to polish and create, Soar'd far beyond the times it strove to imitate.
Take then, O Chatterton, the bootless praise, Which cannot vibrate on thy death-struck ear! And O! if ever in remotest days A youth like thee shall taste the vital air, O may he learn, from thy misfortunes known, In conscious merit proud, the work he forms to own!
