O like some cindered orb that shineth not,
Yet holdeth still its planets as a sun,
Is one burnt out by sorrow and o'erfraught
With that mute anguish of a life undone—
That sinking of the heart, that deadly thought
That all is lost and would be worthless won.
[Handing paper to her.] I would that it were better.
Bertha. 'Tis so sad.
Chatterton. I wrote it on the midnight of the day
I fell into a new-made grave.
Bertha. O, sir,
Yield not to gloom; for you are rich in mind.
Of all the boons the Fates propitious grant
I'd choose the golden branch of poesy.
Chatterton. Each man doth pay a price for what he has.
The very qualities of mind and heart
That make a poet make a sufferer.
The keenness of perception, which unfolds
A realm of beauty hid to other eyes,
Unmasks the world: shows him indifference
Behind the flimsy guise of courtesy,
The shallowness of friendship, the alloy
Of self, debasing charity to trade.
The vividness of his imagination,
Which, in a garret, gives him trees and flowers,
The cool salt sea and heaven's blue expanse,
Enlarges troubles, and creates such fears
He trembles at the possible in life.
The sensibility, which treasures up
Each word or look of kindness as a gem,
Makes bitterer the haughtiness of birth,
The vulgar swelling of a pompous purse,
The slur, the slight, the mockery of fools.
Beyond he sees a spiritual sphere,
Where, by unselfishness, the terrible
Becomes a valued teacher—where the power
To wound through self is lost; yet cannot reach it.
He is a medium through which all things speak:
The human passions wrack his nervous frame;
Each thing in nature makes his heart its pulse.
Who would aspire to wear the laurel crown?—
It is a crown of thorns! [Sinks back upon chair.]
Bertha. O you are faint from hunger!
Chatterton. 'Tis not so:
A giddiness—be not afraid—'t will pass— [Faints.]
Bertha. [Going to him and raising his head.]
O Chatterton, look up! He's dead! He's dead!
O world, behold your deed! His eyelids move!
Chatterton. [Recovering.]
'Tis gone. O I would die to wake like this.