his friend drew
him in the situation in which he is represented in this plate. Anxieties
and cares had advanced his life, and given him an older look than was
suited to his age. The sorry apartment portrayed in the print, the
folded bed, the broken utensil below it, the bottle, the farthing
candle, and the disorderly raiment of the bard, are not inventions of
fancy. They were realities; and a satire upon an age and a nation of
which generosity is doubtless a conspicuous characteristic. But poor
Chatterton was born under a bad star: his passions were too impetuous,
and in a distracted moment he deprived himself of an existence, which
his genius, and the fostering care of the public would undoubtedly have
rendered comfortable and happy. Unknown and miserable while alive, he
now calls forth curiosity and attention. Men of wit and learning employ
themselves to celebrate his talents, and to express their approbation of
his writings. Hard indeed was his fate, born to adorn the times in which
he lived, yet compelled to fall a victim to pride and poverty! His
destiny, cruel as it was, gives a charm to his verses; and while the
bright thought excites admiration, the recollection of his miseries
awakens a tender sympathy and sorrow. Who would not wish that he had
been so fortunate as to relieve a fellow creature so accomplished, from
wretchedness, despair, and suicide?

WRITTEN ON VIEWING THE PORTRAIT OF CHATTERTON.

Ah! what a contrast in that face portray'd,
Where care and study cast alternate shade;
But view it well, and ask thy heart the cause,
Then chide, with honest warmth, that cold applause
Which counteracts the fostering breath of praise,
And shades with cypress the young poet's bays:
Pale and dejected, mark, how genius strives
With poverty, and mark, how well it thrives;
The shabby cov'ring of the gentle bard,
Regard it well, 'tis worthy thy regard,
The friendly cobweb, serving for a screen,
The chair, a part of what it once had been;
The bed, whereon th' unhappy victim slept
And oft unseen, in silent anguish, wept,
Or spent in dear delusive dreams, the night,
To wake, next morning, but to curse the light,
Too deep distress the artist's hand reveals;
But like a friend's the black'ning deed conceals;
Thus justice, to mild complacency bends,
And candour, all harsh influence, suspends.
Enthron'd, supreme in judgment, mercy sits,
And, in one breath condemns, applauds, ac