THE DEATH OF THOMAS CHATTERTON

By John William Draper

A gutted wick, still flutteringly aflame

Upon a roughened bench — bare walls, bare floor,

And glimmering gray of sunrise — yes, and more —

Ah, brother, for I call thee by that name —

Mine eyes tear-blinded to thy figure came,

Thy figure fallen like a flower when hoar

Frosts blight. Thy soul wont like the lark to soar

The light-flushed dawn, now takes a loftier aim.

Thy funeral chant, the slow-entoning wind;

Thy churched tomb, the pillared vault of morn;

Thy requiem, the birds: Thus art thou dead,

Pale, spectred want, thy tribute from thy kind;

But God, himself, thy dirges shall adorn

With sighing psalms of every wind that's sped.