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."

• We do not aver that, in general, these productions tend to augment Chatterton's fame; on the contrary, as some of them have been written almost during infancy, as others are merely unfinished fragments, and as all seem incorrect and hasty productions, we cannot but consider them as far inferior to the poems ascribed to Rowley, and even to those which Chatterton was himself pleased to own during his life. But in another point of view, these early and unfinished compositions are very interesting. In Chatterton, above all other poets, we would wish, not merely to admire the works upon which he may safely rest his claim to immortal fame, but also to investigate the performances in which his exertions have been less successful; and by comparing them together, to form, if it be possible, some idea of the strength and weakness of this prodigy of early talent. We therefore approve of publishing such pieces as 'Sly Dick' and 'Apostate Will,' which display the early satirical propensities of young Chatterton; with the elegies, songs, and burlettas, by which he endeavoured rather to supply his necessities, and postpone the dreadful crisis of his fate, than to indulge his genius, or extend his poetical fame. One of his juvenile productions is a hymn for Christmas Day, which bears ample testimony to the premature powers of the author.-Such was the early command of language displayed by a child, who, when a beardless youth, was to quell a whole synod of grizzled deans and antiquaries.-SIR WALTER SCOTT.

HECCAR AND GAIRA,

AN AFRICAN ECLOGUE.

Where the rough Caigra rolls the surgy wave,
Urging his thunders thro' the echoing* cave;
Where the sharp rocks, in distant horror seen,
Drive the white currents thro' the spreading green;
Where the loud tiger, pawing in his rage,

Bids the black archers of the wilds engage;

Stretch'd on the sand, two panting warriors lay,

In all the burning torments of the day;

Their bloody jav'lins reeked one living steam,
Their bows were broken at the roaring stream;

Heccar the Chief of Jarra's fruitful hill,
Where the dark vapours nightly dews distil,
Saw Gaira the companion of his soul,
Extended where loud Caigra's billows roll;
Gaira, the king of warring archers found,
Where daily lightnings plough the sandy ground,
Where brooding tempests howl along the sky,
Where rising deserts whirl'd in circles fly.

• Distant is written under echoing in the MS.

HECCAR.

Gaira, 'tis useless to attempt the chace,

Swifter than hunted wolves they urge the race;
Their lessening forms elude the straining eye,
Upon the plumage of macaws they fly.
Let us return, and strip the reeking slain
Leaving the bodies on the burning plain.

GAIRA.

Heccar, my vengeance still exclaims for blood,
'Twould drink a wider stream than Caigra's flood.
This jav'lin, oft in nobler quarrels try'd,
Put the loud thunder of their arms aside.

Fast as the streaming rain, I pour'd the dart,
Hurling a whirlwind thro' the trembling heart:
But now my ling'ring feet revenge denies,
O could I throw my jav'lin from my eyes!

HECCAR.

When Gaira the united armies broke,

Death wing'd the arrow; death impell'd the stroke.
See, pil'd in mountains, on the sanguine sand

The blasted of the lightnings of thy hand.
Search the brown desert, and the glossy green;
There are the trophies of thy valour seen.
The scatter'd bones mantled in silver white,
Once animated, dared the force* in fight.

• Query, whether not intended for foes ?-SOUTHEY's Edition.

The children of the wave, whose pallid race,
Views the faint sun display a languid face,
From the red fury of thy justice fled,
Swifter than torrents from their rocky bed.
Fear with a sickened silver ting'd their hue;
The guilty fear, when vengeance is their due.

GAIRA.

Rouse not Remembrance from her shadowy cell,
Nor of those bloody sons of mischief tell.
Cawna, O Cawna! deck'd in sable charms,

What distant region holds thee from my arms?
Cawna, the pride of Afric's sultry vales,
Soft as the cooling murmur of the gales,
Majestic as the many colour'd snake,

Trailing his glories thro' the blossom'd brake:
Black as the glossy rocks, where Eascal roars,
Foaming thro' sandy wastes to Jaghir's shores;
Swift as the arrow, hasting to the breast,
Was Cawna, the companion of my rest.

The sun sat low'ring in the western sky,
The swelling tempest spread around the eye;
Upon my Cawna's bosom I reclin'd,
Catching the breathing whispers of the wind
Swift from the wood a prowling tiger came;
Dreadful his voice, his eyes a glowing flame;
I bent the bow, the never-erring dart

Pierced his rough armour, but escaped his heart;

He fled, tho' wounded, to a distant waste,

I

urg'd the furious flight with fatal haste; He fell, he died-spent in the fiery toil, I strip'd his carcase of the furry spoil, And as the varied spangles met my eye, On this, I cried, shall my loved Cawna lie. The dusky midnight hung the skies in grey; Impell'd by love, I wing'd the airy way; In the deep valley and the mossy plain, I sought my Cawna, but I sought in vain, The pallid shadows of the azure waves Had made my Cawna, and my children slaves. Reflection maddens, to recall the hour, The gods had given me to the dæmon's power. The dusk slow vanished from the hated lawn, I gain'd a mountain glaring with the dawn. There the full sails, expanded to the wind, Struck horror and distraction in my mind, There Cawna mingled with a worthless train, In common slavery drags the hated chain. Now judge, my Heccar, have I cause for rage? Should aught the thunder of my arm assuage? In ever-reeking blood this jav'lin dyed With vengeance shall be never satisfied; I'll strew the beaches with the mighty dead And tinge the lily of their features red.