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 the wyllowe-tree. Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, In the briered dell belowe; Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, To the nygthe-mares as theie goe. Mie love ys dedde, Gone to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe-tree. See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude; Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie, Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude. Mie love ys dedde, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe-tree.