IZAAK WALTON AND HIS FRIENDS 



203 



Something more sacred then, or more entire, 



The memories of virtuous men require, 



Than what may with their funeral torch expire 



This History can give ; to which alone 



The privilege to mate oblivion 



Is granted, when denied to brass and stone. 



Wherein, my friend, you have a hand so sure, 

 Your truths so candid are, your style so pure, 

 That what you write may envy's search endure. 



Your pen, disdaining to be brib'd or prest, 



Flows without vanity or interest ; 



A virtue with which few good pens are blest. 



How happy was my father then, to see 

 Those men he lov'd, by him he lov'd to be 

 Rescued from frailties and mortality. 



Wotton and Donne, to whom his soul was knit 

 Those twins of virtue, eloquence and wit. 

 He saw in fame's eternal annals writ ; 



Where one has fortunately found a place. 

 More faithful to him than his marble was : 

 Which eating age, nor fire, shall e'er deface. 



A monument, that, as it has, shall last, 

 And prove a monument to that defac'd ; 

 Itself, but with the world not to be raz'd. 



