Conscience.

Doisneau, The Car that Melted, 1944

The CHURCHWARDEN & the APPARITION: A FABLE

The night was cold, the wind was high,

And stars bespangled all the sky;

Churchwarden Joe had laid him down,

And slept secure on bed of down;

But still the pleasing hope of gain,

That never left his active brain,

Exposed the churchyard to his view,

That seat of treasure wholly new.

“Pull down that cross,” he quickly cried,

The mason instantly complied:

When lo! behold, the golden prize

Appears—joy sparkles in his eyes.

The door now creaks, the window shakes,

With sudden fear he starts and wakes;

Quaking and pale, in eager haste

His haggard eyes around he cast;

A ghastly phantom, lean and wan,

That instant rose, and thus began:

“Weak wretch—to think to blind my eyes!

Hypocrisy's a thin disguise;

Your humble mien and fawning tongue

Have oft deceived the old and young.

On this side now, and now on that,

The very emblem of the bat:

Whatever part you take, we know

'Tis only interest makes it so,

And though with sacred zeal you burn,

Religion's only for your turn;

I'm Conscience called!” Joe greatly feared;

The lightning flashed—it disappeared.

Thomas Chatterton

Astounde.

Friedrich, Ruins at Dusk, 1831

Stay, curyous traveller, and pass not bye,

Until this fetive pile astounde thine eye.

Whole rocks on rocks with yron joynd surveie,

And okes with okes entremed disponed lie.

This mightie pile, that keeps the wyndes at baie,

Fyre-levyn and the mokie storme defie,

That shootes aloofe into the reaulmes of daie,

Shall be the record of the Buylders fame for aie.

Thou seest this maystrie of a human hand,

The pride of Brystowe and the Westerne lande,                  

Yet is the Buylders vertues much moe greete,

Greeter than can bie Rowlies pen be scande.

Thou seest the saynctes and kynges in stonen state,

That seemd with breath and human soule dispande,

As payrde to us enseem these men of slate,

Such is greete Canynge's mynde when payrd to God elate.

Well maiest thou be astound, but view it well;

Go not from hence before thou see thy fill,

And learn the Builder's vertues and his name;

Of this tall spyre in every countye telle,                    

And with thy tale the lazing rych men shame;

Showe howe the glorious Canynge did excelle;

How hee good man a friend for kynges became,

And gloryous paved at once the way to heaven and fame.

Thomas Chatterton

Arts.

SLY DICK

Sharp was the frost, the wind was high

And sparkling stars bedeckt the sky

Sly Dick in arts of cunning skill'd,

Whose rapine all his pockets fill'd,

Had laid him down to take his rest

And soothe with sleep his anxious breast.

'Twas thus a dark infernal sprite

A native of the blackest night,

Portending mischief to devise

Upon Sly Dick he cast his eyes;

Then straight descends the infernal sprite,

And in his chamber does alight;

In visions he before him stands,

And his attention he commands.

Thus spake the sprite— hearken my friend,

And to my counsels now attend.

Within the garret's spacious dome

There lies a well stor'd wealthy room,

Well stor'd with cloth and stockings too,

Which I suppose will do for you,

First from the cloth take thou a purse,

For thee it will not be the worse,

A noble purse rewards thy pains,

A purse to hold thy filching gains;

Then for the stockings let them reeve

And not a scrap behind thee leave,

Five bundles for a penny sell

And pence to thee will come pell mell;

See it be done with speed and care

Thus spake the sprite and sunk in air.

When in the morn with thoughts erect

Sly Dick did on his dreams reflect,

Why faith, thinks he, 'tis something too,

It might— perhaps— it might be true,

I'll go and see— away he hies,

And to the garret quick he flies,

Enters the room, cuts up the clothes

And after that reeves up the hose;

Then of the cloth he purses made,

Purses to hold his filching trade.

Thomas Chatterton