88 HIS LIVES. 



be met with in the following beautiful sonnet by 

 Mr. Wordsworth, the celebrated poet of the Lakes, 

 and now the poet Laureat. 



There are no colours in the fairest sky 



So fair as these ; the feather whence the pen 



Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, 



Dropped from an Angel's wing. With moistened eye 



We read of faith and purest charity, 



In statesman, priest, and humble citizen. 

 Oh ! could we copy their mild virtues, then 

 What joy to live, what blessedness to die ! 



Methinks their very names shine still and bright, 

 Apart like glow-worms in the woods of spring, 

 Or lonely tapers shooting far a light 



That guides and cheers, or seen like stars on high, 

 Satellites burning in a lucid ring, 

 Around meek WALTON'S heavenly memory. 



Had he been a cruel, he must necessarily have 

 been a bad, man ; but, so far from this being the 

 case, we find writers of every class, and of every 

 degree of fame, all joining in praise of his religious 

 integrity and undissembled honesty of heart. In 

 fact, he was, his own biographer ; and who can 

 read his works without feeling convinced, that the 

 tranquillity of his mind, and the simplicity of his 

 manners, were the result of his own unblemished 

 virtues, and the innocence of his life. We have 

 dwelt the longer on this subject, because we were 

 anxious to rescue the memory of the " good old 

 Walton" from a charge, which we happen to know 



