surmise that thou wouldst probably have ended thy life as a victim to
the laws, if thou hadst not ended it as thou didst."

Enough, enough, of the learned antiquaries, and of the classical and
benevolent testimony of Dr. Knox. Chatterton was, indeed, badly enough
off; but he was at least saved from the pain and shame of reading this
woful lamentation over fallen genius, which circulates splendidly bound
in the fourteenth edition, while he is a prey to worms. As to those who
are really capable of admiring Chatterton's genius, or of feeling an
interest in his fate, I would only say, that I never heard any one speak
of any one of his works as if it were an old well-known favourite, and
had become a faith and a religion in his mind. It is his name, his
youth, and what he might have lived to have done, that excite our wonder
and admiration. He has the same sort of posthumous fame that an actor of
the last age has--an abstracted reputation which is independent of any
thing we know of his works. The admirers of Collins never think of him
without recalling to their minds his Ode on Evening, or on the Poetical
Character. Gray's Elegy, and his poetical popularity, are identified
together, and inseparable even in imagination. It is the same with
respect to Burns: when you speak of him as a poet, you mean his works,
his Tam o'Shanter, or his Cotter's Saturday Night. But the enthusiasts
for Chatterton, if you ask for the proofs of his extraordinary genius,
are obliged to turn to the volume, and perhaps find there what they
seek; but it is not in their minds; and it is of _that_ I spoke. The
Minstrel's song in AElla is I think the best.

"O! synge untoe my roundelaie,
O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
Lycke a rennynge ryver bee.
Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe-tree.

Black hys cryne as the wyntere nyght,
Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe,
Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte,
Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe.
Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe-tree.

Swote hys tongue as the throstles note,
Quycke ynne daunce as thought cann bee,
Defte his taboure, codgelle stote,
O! hee lys bie the wyllowe-tree.
Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under