ELEGY, To the Memory of Mr. THOMAS PHILLIPS of Fairford. Thomas Chatterton Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T39457 K039720.000 Chatterton, Thomas, 1752-1770. Miscellanies in Prose and Verse; by Thomas Chatterton, the supposed author of the poems published under the names of Rowley, Canning, &c. London printed for Fielding and Walker, Pater-Noster Row, MDCCLXXVIII. 1778 pp. 66-71. xxxii,245,[3]p.,plates; 8⁰.

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ELEGY , To the Memory of Mr. THOMAS PHILLIPS of Fairford . NO more I hail the morning's golden gleam ; No more the wonders of the view I sing : Friendship requires a melancholy theme ; At her command the awful lyre I string . Now as I wander thro' this leafless grove , Where the dark vapours of the ev'ning rise , How shall I teach the chorded shell to move ; Or stay the gushing torrents from my eyes ? Philips , great master of the boundless lyre , Thee would the grateful muse attempt to paint ; Give me a double portion of thy fire , Or all the pow'rs of language are too faint . Say what bold number , what immortal line The image of thy genius can reflect ? O , lend my pen what animated thine , To shew thee in thy native glories deckt . The joyous charms of Spring delighted saw , Their beauties doubly glaring in thy lay : Nothing was Spring which Phillips did not draw , And ev'ry image of his muse was May . So rose the regal hyacinthal star ; So shone the pleasant rustic daisied bed ; So seem'd the woodlands less'ning from afar ; You saw the real prospect as you read . Majestic Summer's blooming flow'ry pride Next claim'd the honour of his nervous song ; He taught the stream in hollow trills to glide , And lead the glories of the year along . When golden Autumn , wreath'd in ripen'd corn , From purple clusters press'd the foamy wine , Thy genius did his sallow brows adorn , And made the beauties of the season thine . Pale rugged Winter bending o'er his tread , His grizzled hair bedropt with ioy dew ; His eyes , a dusky light , congeal'd and dead ; His robe , a tinge of bright etherial blue : His train , a motley'd , sanguine , sable cloud , He limps along the russet dreary moor ; Whilst rising whirlwinds , blasting , keen , and loud , Roll the white surges to the sounding shore . Nor were his pleasures unimprov'd by thee : Pleasures he has , tho' horridly deform'd : The silver'd hill , the polish'd lake , we see , Is by thy genius fix'd , preserv'd , and warm'd . The rough November has his pleasures too ; But I'm insensible to every joy : Farewel the laurel , now I grasp the yew , And all my little powers in grief employ . In thee each virtue found a pleasing cell , Thy mind was honour , and thy soul divine : With thee did ev'ry power of genius dwell : Thou wert the Helicon of all the nine . Fancy whose various figure-tinctur'd vest , Was ever changing to a different hue : Her head , with varied bays and flow'rets drest , Her eyes , two spangles of the morning dew . In dancing attitude she swept thy string , And now she soars and now again descends , And now reclining on the Zephyr's wing , Unto the velvet-vested mead she bends . Peace , deck'd in all the softness of the dove , Over thy passions spread her silver plume : The rosy vale of harmony and love , Hung on thy soul in one eternal bloom . Peace , gentlest , softest of the virtues , spread Her silver pinions , wet with dewy tears , Upon her best distinguish'd poet's head , And taught his lyre the music of the spheres . Temp'rance , with health and beauty in her train , And massy-muscled Strength in graceful pride , Pointed at scarlet Luxury and Pain , And did at every chearful feast preside . Content , who smiles at all the frowns of fate , Fann'd from idea ev'ry seeming ill ; In thy own virtue , and thy genius great , The happy muse laid anxious troubles still . But see ! The sick'ned glare of day retires , And the meek ev'ning shades the dusky grey : The west faint glimmers with the saffron fires , And , like thy life , O Phillips ! dies away . Here , stretch'd upon this heav'n ascending hill , I'll wait the horrors of the coming night ; I'll imitate the gently-plaintive rill , And by the glare of lambent vapours write . Wet with the dew the yellow'd hawthorns bow ; The loud winds whistle thro' the echoing dell ; Far o'er the lea the breathing cattle low , And the shrill shriekings of the screech-owl swell . With rustling sound the dusky foliage flies , And wantons with the wind in rapid whirls : The gurg'ling riv'let to the valley hies , And lost to sight , in dying murmurs curls . Now as the mantle of the ev'ning swells Upon my mind , I feel a thick'ning gloom ! Ah ! Could I charm , by friendship's potent spells , The soul of Phillips from the deathy tomb ! Then would we wander thro' the dark'ned vale , In converse such as heav'nly spirits use , And borne upon the plumage of the gale , Hymn the Creator , and exhort the muse . But horror to reflection ! Now no more Will Phillips sing , the wonder of the plain , When doubting whether they might not adore , Admiring mortals heard the nervous strain . A mad'ning darkness reigns thro' all the lawn , Naught but a doleful bell of death is heard , Save where into an hoary oak withdrawn , The scream proclaims the curst nocturnal bird . Now , rest my muse , but only rest to weep , A friend made dear by every sacred tye ! Unknown to me be comfort , peace , or sleep , Phillips is dead , 'tis pleasure then to die !