In this category:

Or see the index

All categories

  1. CINEMA, RADIO & TV
  2. DANCE
  3. DICTIONARY OF IDEAS
  4. EXHIBITION – art, art history, photos, paintings, drawings, sculpture, ready-mades, video, performing arts, collages, gallery, etc.
  5. FICTION & NON-FICTION – books, booklovers, lit. history, biography, essays, translations, short stories, columns, literature: celtic, beat, travesty, war, dada & de stijl, drugs, dead poets
  6. FLEURSDUMAL POETRY LIBRARY – classic, modern, experimental & visual & sound poetry, poetry in translation, city poets, poetry archive, pre-raphaelites, editor's choice, etc.
  7. LITERARY NEWS & EVENTS – art & literature news, in memoriam, festivals, city-poets, writers in Residence
  8. MONTAIGNE
  9. MUSEUM OF LOST CONCEPTS – invisible poetry, conceptual writing, spurensicherung
  10. MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY – department of ravens & crows, birds of prey, riding a zebra
  11. MUSEUM OF PUBLIC PROTEST- photos, texts, videos, street poetry
  12. MUSIC
  13. PRESS & PUBLISHING
  14. REPRESSION OF WRITERS, JOURNALISTS & ARTISTS
  15. STORY ARCHIVE – olv van de veestraat, reading room, tales for fellow citizens
  16. STREET POETRY
  17. THEATRE
  18. TOMBEAU DE LA JEUNESSE – early death: writers, poets & artists who died young
  19. ULTIMATE LIBRARY – danse macabre, ex libris, grimm and others, fairy tales, the art of reading, tales of mystery & imagination, sherlock holmes theatre, erotic poetry, the ideal woman
  20. ·




  1. Subscribe to new material:
    RSS     ATOM

Chatterton, Thomas

· Thomas Chatterton: Song from Ælla · George Sand: Chatterton · Thomas Chatterton: A new song

Thomas Chatterton: Song from Ælla

chatterton00

Thomas Chatterton

(1752-1770)

Song from Ælla

 

SING unto my roundelay,

O drop the briny tear with me;

Dance no more at holyday,

Like a running river be:

 

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed

 

All under the willow-tree.

 

Black his cryne [1] as the winter night,

White his rode [2] as the summer snow,

Red his face as the morning light,

Cole 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 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.

 

Hark! the raven flaps his wing

In the brier’d dell below;

Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing

To the nightmares, as they go:

 

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed

 

All under the willow-tree.

 

See! the white moon shines on high;

Whiter is my true-love’s shroud:

Whiter than the morning sky,

Whiter than the evening cloud:

 

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed

 

All under the willow-tree.

 

Here upon my true-love’s grave

Shall the barren flowers be laid;

Not one holy saint to save

All the coldness of a maid:

 

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed

 

All under the willow-tree.

 

With my hands I’ll dent the briers

Round his holy corse to gre [3]:

Ouph [4] and fairy, light your fires,

Here my body still shall be:

 

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed

 

All under the willow-tree.

 

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,

Drain my heartès blood away;

Life and all its good I scorn,

Dance by night, or feast by day:

 

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed

 

All under the willow-tree.

 

 

1 cryne – hair – 2 rode – complexion – 3 gre – grow – 4 ouph – elf

Thomas Chatterton poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive C-D, Chatterton, Thomas, Thomas Chatterton


George Sand: Chatterton

George Sand

(1804-1876)

 

Chatterton

Quand vous aurez prouvé, messieurs du journalisme,

Que Chatterton eut tort de mourir ignoré,

Qu’au Théâtre-Français on l’a défiguré,

Quand vous aurez crié sept fois à l’athéisme,

 

Sept fois au contresens et sept fois au sophisme,

Vous n’aurez pas prouvé que je n’ai pas pleuré.

Et si mes pleurs ont tort devant le pédantisme,

Savez-vous, moucherons, ce que je vous dirai ?

 

Je vous dirai : ” Sachez que les larmes humaines

Ressemblent en grandeur aux flots de l’Océan ;

On n’en fait rien de bon en les analysant ;

 

Quand vous en puiseriez deux tonnes toutes pleines,

En les faisant sécher, vous n’en aurez demain

Qu’un méchant grain de sel dans le creux de la main. ”


George Sand poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Chatterton, Thomas, George Sand, Thomas Chatterton


Thomas Chatterton: A new song

Thomas Chatterton
(1752-1770)

A New Song

Ah blame me not, Catcott, if from the right way
My notions and actions run far.
How can my ideas do other but stray,
Deprived of their ruling North-Star?

A blame me not, Broderip, if mounted aloft,
I chatter and spoil the dull air;
How can I imagine thy foppery soft,
When discord’s the voice of my fair?

If Turner remitted my bluster and rhymes,
If Hardind was girlish and cold,
If never an ogle was got from Miss Grimes,
If Flavia was blasted and old;

I chose without liking, and left without pain,
Nor welcomed the frown with a sigh;
I scorned, like a monkey, to dangle my chain,
And paint them new charms with a lie.

Once Cotton was handsome; I flam’d and I burn’d,
I died to obtain the bright queen;
But when I beheld my epistle return’d,
By Jesu it alter’d the scene.

She’s damnable ugly, my Vanity cried,
You lie, says my Conscience, you lie;
Resolving to follow the dictates of Pride,
I’d view her a hag to my eye.

But should she regain her bright lustre again,
And shine in her natural charms,
‘Tis but to accept of the works of my pen,
And permit me to use my own arms.

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive C-D, Chatterton, Thomas, Thomas Chatterton


Thank you for reading FLEURSDUMAL.NL - magazine for art & literature