The "Battle of Hastings" is the longest of Chatterton's poems, and the reader who arrives at its abrupt termination will probably not grieve that it is left unfinished. The whole contains about 1300 lines in stanzas of ten, describing archery fights and heroic duels that are rather tedious by their similarity, and offensive from the smell of the shambles; and which any quick-witted stripling with the knack of rhyming might perhaps have done as well, and less coarsely, after reading Chapman's or Ogilby's Homer, or the fighting scenes in Spenser, the Border Ballads, &c. But even this composition is not unconscious of the true afflatus, such as is incommunicable by learning, not to be inhaled by mere imitative powers, and which might be vainly sought for in hundreds of highly elaborated prize poems. There is nothing more interesting in British history than the subject; and it is one which Chatterton, with all his genius, was much too young to treat in a manner at all approaching to epic completeness. Yet a few specimens might show that he is not deficient in the energy of the Homeric poetry of action. But here is metal more attractive, a young Saxon wife:-- "White as the chalky cliffs of Britain's isle, Red as the highest-coloured Gallic wine, Gay as all nature at the morning smile, Those hues with pleasance on her lips combine; Her lips more red than summer evening's skies, Or Phoebus rising in a frosty morn; Her breast more white than snow in fields that lies, Or lily lambs that never have been shorn, Swelling like bubbles in a boiling well, Or new-burst brooklets gentling whispering in the dell, * * * * * "Brown as the filbert dropping from the shell, Brown as the nappy ale at Hocktide game-- So brown the crooked rings that neatly fell Over the neck of that all-beauteous dame. Grey as the morn before the ruddy flame Of Phoebus' chariot rolling through the sky; Grey as the steel-horn'd goats Conyan made tame-- So grey appear'd her featly sparkling eye. * * * * * "Majestic as the grove of oaks that stood Before the abbey built by Oswald king; Majestic as Hibernia's holy wood, Where saints, and souls departed, masses sing-- Such awe from her sweet look far issuing, At once for reverence and love did call. Sweet as the voice of thrushes in the spring, So sweet the words that from her lips did fall. * * * * * "Taper as candles laid at Cuthbert's shrine, Taper as silver chalices for wine, So were her arms and shape.-- As skilful miners by the stones above Can ken what metal is inlaid below, So Kennewalcha's face, design'd for love, The lovely image of her soul did show. Thus was she outward form'd; the sun, her mind, Did gild her mortal shape and all her charms refined."