But although he committed suicide with "no thought of future renown," he had scarcely been buried in a shell in the burying-ground of Shoe-lane Workhouse, before "honors began to gather about his memory." The famous Tyrwhitt published his poems, with a preface, introduction and glossary; a few years after, a very splendid edition was published by Dr. Mills, Dean of Exeter, with a dissertation and commentary; more lately, Southey, the best biographer of the age, has collected his works and written his life--and incidental tributes, without number, have been offered by great names at the pauper-shrine of "the boy of Bristol." There are some verses of his minstrel's song in "Ella," which may be considered as a personal elegy. "O sing unto my roundelay-- O drop the briny tears with me; Dance no more at holiday-- Like a running river be. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree. Black his hair as the summer night, White his brow as the winter snow, Red his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree. Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, Quick in the dance as thought can be-- Deft his tabor--cudgel stout-- O he lies by the willow tree. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree. {105} Hist, the raven flaps his wing To the night-mares as they go, And the death-owl hoarse doth sing, From the briared dell below. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree." I have little or no more to say of Thomas Chatterton; I have already said too much. But the heart rules the head when we look upon the wretched career--least wretched in its wretched end--of one fitted for the loftiest achievements. A rocket with "the wide sky" before it--the blaze and the flight of his genius was scarcely beyond the fogs that lie near earth. It fell, blackened, and scorched, and lightless, to the dust. Had "the marvellous boy" feared death more than he had been taught to fear life, the rocket would have been in "the wide sky," not in the dust--the wonder of men, not their pity. Thomas Chatterton died in 1770, aged seventeen years and nine months.