With Shakspeare’s manhood at a boy’s wild heart, —

Through Hamlet’s doubt to Shakspeare near allied,

And kin to Milton through his Satan’s pride, —

At Death’s sole door he stooped, and craved a dart;

And to the dear new bower of England’s art, —

Even to that shrine Time else had deified,

The unuttered heart that soared against his side, —

Drove the fell point, and smote life’s seals apart.

Thy nested home-loves, noble Chatterton;

The angel-trodden stair thy soul could trace

Up Redcliffe’s spire; and in the world’s armed space

Thy gallant sword-play: — these to many an one

Are sweet for ever; as thy grave unknown

And love-dream of thine unrecorded face.