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Best Famous Thomas Chatterton Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Thomas Chatterton poems. This is a select list of the best famous Thomas Chatterton poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Thomas Chatterton poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Thomas Chatterton poems.

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Written by Thomas Chatterton |

The Advice

 Revolving in their destin'd sphere, 
The hours begin another year 
As rapidly to fly; 
Ah! think, Maria, (e'er in grey 
Those auburn tresses fade away
So youth and beauty die.
Tho' now the captivating throng Adore with flattery and song, And all before you bow; Whilst unattentive to the strain, You hear the humble muse complain, Or wreathe your frowning brow.
Tho' poor Pitholeon's feeble line, In opposition to the nine, Still violates your name; Tho' tales of passion meanly told, As dull as Cumberland, as cold, Strive to confess a flame.
Yet, when that bloom and dancing fire, In silver'd rev'rence shall expire, Aged, wrinkled, and defaced; To keep one lover's flame alive, Requires the genius of a Clive, With Walpole's mental taste.
Tho' rapture wantons in your air, Tho' beyond simile you're fair, Free, affable, serene; Yet still one attribute divine Should in your composition shine-- Sincerity, I mean.
Tho' num'rous swains before you fall, 'Tis empty admiration all, 'Tis all that you require; How momentary are their chains! Like you, how unsincere the strains Of those who but admire! Accept, for once, advice from me, And let the eye of censure see Maria can be true; No more for fools or empty beaux, Heav'n's representatives disclose, Or butterflies pursue.
Fly to your worthiest lover's arms, To him resign your swelling charms, And meet his gen'rous breast; Or if Pitholeon suits your taste, His muse with tattr'd fragments graced, Shall read your cares to rest.

Written by Thomas Chatterton |

A Hymn for Christmas Day

 Almighty Framer of the Skies! 
O let our pure devotion rise, 
Like Incense in thy Sight! 
Wrapt in impenetrable Shade 
The Texture of our Souls were made 
Till thy Command gave light.
The Sun of Glory gleam'd the Ray, Refin'd the Darkness into Day, And bid the Vapours fly; Impell'd by his eternal Love He left his Palaces above To cheer our gloomy Sky.
How shall we celebrate the day, When God appeared in mortal clay, The mark of worldly scorn; When the Archangel's heavenly Lays, Attempted the Redeemer's Praise And hail'd Salvation's Morn! A Humble Form the Godhead wore, The Pains of Poverty he bore, To gaudy Pomp unknown; Tho' in a human walk he trod Still was the Man Almighty God In Glory all his own.
Despis'd, oppress'd, the Godhead bears The Torments of this Vale of tears; Nor bade his Vengeance rise; He saw the Creatures he had made, Revile his Power, his Peace invade; He saw with Mercy's Eyes.
How shall we celebrate his Name, Who groan'd beneath a Life of shame In all Afflictions tried! The Soul is raptured to concieve A Truth, which Being must believe, The God Eternal died.
My Soul exert thy Powers, adore, Upon Devotion's plumage sar To celebrate the Day; The God from whom Creation sprung Shall animate my grateful Tongue; From him I'll catch the Lay!

Written by Thomas Chatterton |

A New Song

 Ah blame me not, Catcott, if from the right way 
My notions and actions run far.
How can my ideas do other but stray, Deprived of their ruling North-Star? A blame me not, Broderip, if mounted aloft, I chatter and spoil the dull air; How can I imagine thy foppery soft, When discord's the voice of my fair? If Turner remitted my bluster and rhymes, If Hardind was girlish and cold, If never an ogle was got from Miss Grimes, If Flavia was blasted and old; I chose without liking, and left without pain, Nor welcomed the frown with a sigh; I scorned, like a monkey, to dangle my chain, And paint them new charms with a lie.
Once Cotton was handsome; I flam'd and I burn'd, I died to obtain the bright queen; But when I beheld my epistle return'd, By Jesu it alter'd the scene.
She's damnable ugly, my Vanity cried, You lie, says my Conscience, you lie; Resolving to follow the dictates of Pride, I'd view her a hag to my eye.
But should she regain her bright lustre again, And shine in her natural charms, 'Tis but to accept of the works of my pen, And permit me to use my own arms.

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Written by Thomas Chatterton |

The Resignation

 O God, whose thunder shakes the sky, 
Whose eye this atom globe surveys, 
To thee, my only rock, I fly, 
Thy mercy in thy justice praise.
The mystic mazes of thy will, The shadows of celestial light, Are past the pow'r of human skill,-- But what th' Eternal acts is right.
O teach me in the trying hour, When anguish swells the dewy tear, To still my sorrows, own thy pow'r, Thy goodness love, thy justice fear.
If in this bosom aught but Thee Encroaching sought a boundless sway, Omniscience could the danger see, And Mercy look the cause away.
Then why, my soul, dost thou complain? Why drooping seek the dark recess? Shake off the melancholy chain.
For God created all to bless.
But ah! my breast is human still; The rising sigh, the falling tear, My languid vitals' feeble rill, The sickness of my soul declare.
But yet, with fortitude resigned, I'll thank th' inflicter of the blow; Forbid the sigh, compose my mind, Nor let the gush of mis'ry flow.
The gloomy mantle of the night, Which on my sinking spirit steals, Will vanish at the morning light, Which God, my East, my sun reveals.

Written by Thomas Chatterton |

Sly Dick

 Sharp was the frost, the wind was high 
And sparkling stars bedeckt the sky 
Sly Dick in arts of cunning skill'd, 
Whose rapine all his pockets fill'd, 
Had laid him down to take his rest 
And soothe with sleep his anxious breast.
'Twas thus a dark infernal sprite A native of the blackest night, Portending mischief to devise Upon Sly Dick he cast his eyes; Then straight descends the infernal sprite, And in his chamber does alight; In visions he before him stands, And his attention he commands.
Thus spake the sprite-- hearken my friend, And to my counsels now attend.
Within the garret's spacious dome There lies a well stor'd wealthy room, Well stor'd with cloth and stockings too, Which I suppose will do for you, First from the cloth take thou a purse, For thee it will not be the worse, A noble purse rewards thy pains, A purse to hold thy filching gains; Then for the stockings let them reeve And not a scrap behind thee leave, Five bundles for a penny sell And pence to thee will come pell mell; See it be done with speed and care Thus spake the sprite and sunk in air.
When in the morn with thoughts erect Sly Dick did on his dreams reflect, Why faith, thinks he, 'tis something too, It might-- perhaps-- it might be true, I'll go and see-- away he hies, And to the garret quick he flies, Enters the room, cuts up the clothes And after that reeves up the hose; Then of the cloth he purses made, Purses to hold his filching trade.

Written by Thomas Chatterton |

The Methodist

 Says Tom to Jack, 'tis very odd, 
These representatives of God, 
In color, way of life and evil, 
Should be so very like the devil.
Jack, understand, was one of those, Who mould religion in the rose, A red hot methodist; his face Was full of puritanic grace, His loose lank hair, his slow gradation, Declared a late regeneration; Among the daughters long renown'd, For standing upon holy ground; Never in carnal battle beat, Tho' sometimes forced to a retreat.
But C_____t, hero as he is, Knight of incomparable phiz, When pliant Doxy seems to yield, Courageously forsakes the field.
Jack, or to write more gravely, John, Thro' hills of Wesley's works had gone; Could sing one hundred hymns by rote; Hymns which would sanctify the throat; But some indeed composed so oddly, You'd swear 'twas bawdy songs made godly.

Written by Thomas Chatterton |

Song from Aella

 O SING unto my roundelay, 
O drop the briny tear with me; 
Dance no more at holyday, 
Like a running river be: 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to his death-bed 
All under the willow-tree.
Black his cryne as the winter night, White his rode as the summer snow, Red his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought can be, Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; O he lies by the willow-tree! My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the brier'd dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares, as they go: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true-love's shroud: Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
Here upon my true-love's grave Shall the barren flowers be laid; Not one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
With my hands I'll dent the briers Round his holy corse to gre: Ouph and fairy, light your fires, Here my body still shall be: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my heartes blood away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

Written by Thomas Chatterton |

Colin Instructed

 Young Colin was as stout a boy 
As ever gave a maiden joy; 
But long in vain he told his tale 
To black-eyed Biddy of the Dale.
Ah why, the whining shepherd cried, Am I alone your smiles denied? I only tell in vain my tale To black-eyed Biddy of the Dale.
True Colin, said the laughing dame, You only whimper out your flame, Others do more than sigh their tale To black-eyed Biddy of the Dale.
He took the hint &c.

Written by Thomas Chatterton |

The Copernican System

 The Sun revolving on his axis turns, 
And with creative fire intensely burns; 
Impell'd by forcive air, our Earth supreme, 
Rolls with the planets round the solar gleam.
First Mercury completes his transient year, Glowing, refulgent, with reflected glare; Bright Venus occupies a wider way, The early harbinger of night and day; More distant still our globe terraqueous turns, Nor chills intense, nor fiercely heated burns; Around her rolls the lunar orb of light, Trailing her silver glories through the night: On the Earth's orbit see the various signs, Mark where the Sun our year completing shines; First the bright Ram his languid ray improves; Next glaring watry thro' the Bull he moves; The am'rous Twins admit his genial ray; Now burning thro' the Crab he takes his way; The Lion flaming bears the solar power; The Virgin faints beneath the sultry show'r, Now the just Balance weighs his equal force, The slimy Serpent swelters in his course; The sabled Archer clouds his languid face; The Goat, with tempests, urges on his race; Now in the Wat'rer his faint beams appear, And the cold Fishes end the circling year.
Beyond our globe the sanguine Mars displays A strong reflection of primoeval rays; Next belted Jupiter far distant gleams, Scarcely enlighten'd with the solar beams, With four unfix'd receptacles of light, He tours majestic thro' the spacious height: But farther yet the tardy Saturn lags, And five attendant Luminaries drags, Investing with a double ring his pace, He circles thro' immensity of space.
These are thy wondrous works, first source of Good! Now more admir'd in being understood.