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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529320" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Elegy On The Death Of Mr. Phillips</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">No more I hail the morning's golden gleam,<br>No more the wonders of the view I sing;<br>Friendship requires a melancholy theme,<br>At her command the awful lyre I string!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now as I wander through this leafless grove,<br>Where tempests howl, and blasts eternal rise,<br>How shall I teach the chorded shell to move,<br>Or stay the gushing torrent from my eyes?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Phillips! great master of the boundless lyre,<br>The would my soul-rack'd muse attempt to paint;<br>Give me a double portion of thy fire,<br>Or all the powers of language are too faint.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Say, soul unsullied by the filth of vice,<br>Say, meek-eyed spirit, where's thy tuneful shell,<br>Which when the silver stream was lock'd with ice,<br>Was wont to cheer the tempest-ravaged dell?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oft as the filmy veil of evening drew<br>The thick'ning shade upon the vivid green,<br>Thou, lost in transport at the dying view,<br>Bid'st the ascending muse display the scene.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When golden Autumn, wreathed in ripen'd corn,<br>From purple clusters prest the foamy wine,<br>Thy genius did his sallow brows adorn,<br>And made the beauties of the season thine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">With rustling sound the yellow foliage flies,<br>And wantons with the wind in rapid whirls;<br>The gurgling riv'let to the valley hies,<br>Whilst on its bank the spangled serpent curls.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The joyous charms of Spring delighted saw<br>Their beauties doubly glaring in thy lay;<br>Nothing was Spring which Phillips did not draw,<br>And every image of his muse was May.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So rose the regal hyacinthial star,<br>So shone the verdure of the daisied bed,<br>So seemed the forest glimmering from afar;<br>You saw the real prospect as you read.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Majestic Summer's blooming flow'ry pride<br>Next claim'd the honour of his nervous song;<br>He taught the stream in hollow trills to glide,<br>And led the glories of the year along.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Pale rugged Winter bending o'er his tread,<br>His grizzled hair bedropt with icy dew;<br>His eyes, a dusky light congealed and dead,<br>His robe, a tinge of bright ethereal blue.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His train a motley'd, sanguine, sable cloud,<br>He limps along the russet, dreary moor,<br>Whilst rising whirlwinds, blasting, keen, and loud,<br>Roll the white surges to the sounding shore.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nor were his pleasures unimproved by thee;<br>Pleasures he has, though horridly deform'd;<br>The polished lake, the silver'd hill we see,<br>Is by thy genius fired, preserved, and warm'd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The rough October has his pleasures too;<br>But I'm insensible to every joy:<br>Farewell the laurel! now I grasp the yew,<br>And all my little powers in grief employ.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Immortal shadow of my much-loved friend!<br>Clothed in thy native virtue meet my soul,<br>When on the fatal bed, my passions bend,<br>And curb my floods of anguish as they roll.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In thee each virtue found a pleasing cell,<br>Thy mind was honour, thy soul divine;<br>With thee did every god of genius dwell,<br>Thou was the Helicon of all the nine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Fancy, whose various figure-tinctured vest<br>Was ever changing to a different hue;<br>Her head, with varied bays and flow'rets drest,<br>Her eyes, two spangles of the morning dew.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">With dancing attitude she swept thy string;<br>And now she soars, and now again descends;<br>And now reclining on the zephyr's wing,<br>Unto the velvet-vested mead she bends.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Peace, deck'd in all the softness of the dove,<br>Over thy passions spread her silver plume;<br>The rosy veil of harmony and love<br>Hung on thy soul in eternal bloom.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Peace, gentlest, softest of the virtues, spread<br>Her silver pinions, wet with dewy tears,<br>Upon her best distinguished poet's head,<br>And taught his lyre the music of the spheres.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Temp'rance, with health and beauty in her train,<br>And massy-muscled strength in graceful pride,<br>Pointed at scarlet luxury and pain,<br>And did at every frugal feast preside.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Black melancholy stealing to the shade<br>With raging madness, frantic, loud, and dire,<br>Whose bloody hand displays the reeking blade,<br>Were strangers to thy heaven-directed lyre.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Content, who smiles in every frown of fate,<br>Wreath'd thy pacific brow and sooth'd thy ill:<br>In thy own virtues and thy genius great,<br>The happy muse laid every trouble still.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But see! the sick'ning lamp of day retires,<br>And the meek evening shakes the dusky grey;<br>The west faint glimmers with the saffron fires,<br>And like thy life, O Phillips! dies away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here, stretched upon this heaven-ascending hill,<br>I'll wait the horrors of the coming night,<br>I'll imitate the gently-plaintive rill,<br>And by the glare of lambent vapours write.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wet with the dew the yellow hawthorns bow;<br>The rustic whistles through the echoing cave;<br>Far o'er the lea the breathing cattle low,<br>And the full Avon lifts the darken'd wave.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now, as the mantle of the evening swells<br>Upon my mind, I feel a thick'ning gloom!<br>Ah! could I charm by necromantic spells<br>The soul of Phillips from the deathy tomb!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then would we wander through the darken'd vale,<br>In converse such as heavenly spirits use,<br>And, borne upon the pinions of the gale,<br>Hymn the Creator, and exert the muse.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But, horror to reflection! now no more<br>Will Phillips sing, the wonder of the plain!<br>When, doubting whether they might not adore,<br>Admiring mortals heard his nervous strain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">See! see! the pitchy vapour hides the lawn,<br>Nought but a doleful bell of death is heard,<br>Save where into a blasted oak withdrawn<br>The scream proclaims the curst nocturnal bird.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now, rest my muse, but only rest to weep<br>A friend made dear by every sacred tie;<br>Unknown to me be comfort peace or sleep:<br>Phillips is dead- 'tis pleasure then to die.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Few are the pleasures Chatterton e'er knew,<br>Short were the moments of his transient peace;<br>But melancholy robb'd him of those few,<br>And this hath bid all future comfort cease.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And can the muse be silent, Phillips gone!<br>And am I still alive? My soul, arise!<br>The robe of immortality put on,<br>And meet thy Phillips in his native skies.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Thomas+Chatterton">Thomas Chatterton</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529320" data-title="Elegy On The Death Of Mr. Phillips de Thomas Chatterton" data-description="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 through this leafless grove,
Where tempests howl, and blasts eterna..."></div>
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