Thomas Chatterton Manuscript Project
The Arts &c
In no particular order - there I've said it. For the time being you should regard this page as a gathering site for any interesting item I find online. The only form of order is that the most recent discovery will be at the top of the page.
An Enquiry After Happiness
Read by Dr Octavia Cox
A rather delightful reading by Dr Octavia Cox of Chatterton's untitled poem.
Daniel Wilson was the first to suggest that this was a work by Chatterton and seems to give the title “An Enquiry After Happiness” to the poem, which is actually the title of the book where Chatterton is said to have written the poem on a blank leaf. A sight of the handwriting would confirm or refute the attribution, although Wilson is convinced it is Chatterton’s, and I agree.
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Control page for An Enquiry After Happiness : View
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Daniel Wilson's : Chatterton, A Biographical Study, p.271, 1874 : View
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Dr Octavia's Youtube channel : Visit
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Donald S. Taylor lists the poem as a 'Work of Doubtful Authenticity' (WODA), by which he means that we are to continue his work and reconsider all of the WODA listed in his two volume work The Complete Works of Thomas Chatterton, 1971.
A Chronycalle of Brystowe
Performance Art by Woden
I found this online 6/01/2023, eight years after it was first uploaded. I hope, in due course, to give a little more information regarding this intriguing reading / performance by Woden, although all I can find online seems to end in 2015.
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'Woden is Alice McFarlane and Guy Lochhead. All poems by Thomas Chatterton. The spirit of Thomas Rowley channeled by Jez Stein.'
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Thomas Chatterton's A Chronycalle of Brystowe wrote bie Raufe Chedder, Chappmanne. 1356.
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A few links:
Bandcamp : View
Facebook : View
The Life & Death of Bristol's Shakespeare
A Podcast by Alice the BackTracker
The Bristol based voices in this production are Henry Arnold and Samantha Vernon.
Alice the BackTracker's Podcast is aired on Bradley Stoke Radio in Bristol.
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I have to add that there are a few factual errors in the podcast, for example, Chatterton did not send samples of his work to Walter Scott, for Scott was not born until after Chatterton had died. But, regardless, I loved the podcast, especially the acting and the Bristol accents. Visit Alice's BackTracker website : View.
Music Video Leoncavallo - Chatterton
Ruggero Leoncavallo :
Music Video Leoncavallo - Chatterton
Music Video Leoncavallo Chatterton
Keats' Sonnet to Chatterton set to Music
by David Diamond
David Diamond - Composer
Helene Williams - Singer
Leonard Lehrman - Piano
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Keats's Sonnet to Chatterton​
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O Chatterton! how very sad thy fate!
Dear child of sorrow – son of misery!
How soon the film of death obscur’d that eye,
Whence Genius mildly flash’d, and high debate.
How soon that voice, majestic and elate,
Melted in dying numbers! Oh! how nigh
Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die
A half-blown flow’ret which cold blasts amate.
But this is past: thou art among the stars
Of highest Heaven: to the rolling spheres
Thou sweetly singest: naught thy hymning mars,
Above the ingrate world and human fears.
On earth the good man base detraction bars
From thy fair name, and waters it with tears.
Music
Jack Gallagher (music)
Chatterton (text)
Commissioned by Amy Gilbert (director), Wooster High School Concert Choir
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Dance No More, for SATB chorus unaccompanied, by Jack Gallagher. Text by Thomas Chatterton. Commissioned by Amy Gilbert, Director, for the Wooster High School Concert Choir. Performed by the Wooster Chorus, Gregory Brown, Director.
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SONG FROM ÆLLA
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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 as the winter night,
White his rode 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.
Francis Thompson
Francis Thompson
All rights are reserved on this video recording copyright Jim Clark 2010
To visit the video directly on Youtube click the link at the foot of the video.
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Why a poem by Francis Thompson?
Simply because Thompson is supposed to have been about to commit suicide
when he was saved by a vision of Chatterton who persuaded him out of it.
‘The Kingdom of God’.
O world invisible, we view thee,
O world intangible, we touch thee,
O world unknowable, we know thee,
Inapprehensible, we clutch thee!
Does the fish soar to find the ocean,
The eagle plunge to find the air–
That we ask of the stars in motion
If they have rumour of thee there?
Not where the wheeling systems darken,
And our benumbed conceiving soars!–
The drift of pinions, would we hearken,
Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors.
The angels keep their ancient places–
Turn but a stone and start a wing!
‘Tis ye, ’tis your estrangèd faces,
That miss the many-splendored thing.
But (when so sad thou canst not sadder)
Cry–and upon thy so sore loss
Shall shine the traffic of Jacob’s ladder
Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross.
Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter,
Cry–clinging to Heaven by the hems;
And lo, Christ walking on the water,
Not of Genesareth, but Thames!
Theatre of Love
In my ignorance I first thought this mad, then I continued to listen and discovered the beauty within.
Fantastic work, and very, very moody - if you like Chatterton you will love this!
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The following is directly from the information on the youtube page.
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Theatre of Love, live at the Glastonberry Club, Moscow 16/09/2012
Filmed and edited by Egor Gavrilin. Our special thanks and gratitude to you Gosha.
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Mie love ys dedde,
(Songe from Aella)
by Thomas Chatterton (1752 - 1770)
O! synge untoe mie roundelaie,
O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
Lycke a reynynge ryver bee;
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte,
Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe,
Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte,
Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe;
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note,
Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee,
Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote,
O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree:
Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Alle underre the wyllowe tree.
Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,
In the briered delle belowe;
Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge,
To the nyghte-mares as heie goe;
Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude;
Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie,
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude;
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
Heere, uponne mie true loves grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nee one hallie Seyncte to save
Al the celness of a mayde.
Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys death-bedde,
Alle under the wyllowe tree.
Wythe mie hondes I'lle dente the brieres
Rounde his hallie corse to gre,
Ouphante fairie, lyghte youre fyres,
Heere mie boddie stylle schalle bee.
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
Comme, wythe acorme-coppe and thorne,
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;
Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne,
Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie.
Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.
Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes,
Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.
I die; I comme; mie true love waytes.
Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.