But quite apart from his youthful precocity and his influence on later poets, Chatterton holds no mean place in English literature because of the intrinsic value of his performance. His work, on the one hand, aside from the 'Rowley' poems, shows him a true poet of the eighteenth century, and the best of it entitles him to a fair place among his contemporaries; but on the other hand he stands almost alone in his generation in possessing the highest poetic endowments,--originality of thought, a quick eye to see and note, the gift of expression, sustained power of composition, and a fire and intensity of imagination. In how far he would have fulfilled his early promise it is idle to surmise; yet what poet, in the whole range of English, nay of _all_ literature, at seventeen years and nine months of age, has produced work of such excellence as this "marvelous boy," who, unrecognized and driven by famine, took his own life in a London garret? FINAL CHORUS FROM 'GODDWYN' When Freedom, dreste yn blodde-steyned veste, To everie knyghte her warre-songe sunge, Uponne her hedde wylde wedes were spredde; A gorie anlace bye her honge. She daunced onne the heathe; She hearde the voice of deathe; Pale-eyned affryghte, hys harte of sylver hue, In vayne assayled her bosomme to acale; She hearde onflemed the shriekynge voice of woe, And sadnesse ynne the owlette shake the dale. She shooke the burled speere, On hie she jeste her sheelde, Her foemen all appere, And flizze alonge the feelde. Power, wythe his heafod straught ynto the skyes, Hys speere a sonne-beame, and hys sheelde a starre, Alyche twaie brendeynge gronfyres rolls hys eyes, Chaftes with hys yronne feete and soundes to war. She syttes upon a rocke, She bendes before hys speere, She ryses from the shocke, Wieldynge her owne yn ayre. Harde as the thonder dothe she drive ytte on, Wytte scillye wympled gies ytte to hys crowne, Hys longe sharpe speere, hys spreddynge sheelde ys gon, He falles, and fallynge rolleth thousandes down. War, goare-faced war, bie envie burld, arist, Hys feerie heaulme noddynge to the ayre, Tenne bloddie arrowes ynne hys streynynge fyste. THE FAREWELL OF SIR CHARLES BALDWIN TO HIS WIFE From 'The Bristowe Tragedie' And nowe the bell beganne to tolle, And claryonnes to sounde; Syr Charles hee herde the horses' feete A-prauncing onne the grounde: And just before the officers His lovynge wyfe came ynne, Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe, Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne. "Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere, Ynne quiet lett mee die; Praie Godde, thatt ev'ry Christian soule May looke onne dethe as I. "Sweet Florence! why these brinie teeres? Theye washe my soule awaie, And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe, Wythe thee, sweete dame, to staie.