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Piscator. I thank thee, Tyro. Those lines thou must give to me; and I promise thee that, for Izaak's sake and thine, I will carefully preserve them. And now, my kind friends, we are come to the very spot where, to seek our several homes, we must part. Good night; and God be with you both!

Socius. And so say I.

Tyro. And I. Good night!

S. M.

WALTON was buried, according to his own request, in the most unostentatious manner possible. He lies in Prior Silksteed's Chapel in Winchester Cathedral, and the grave-stone which covers his remains has the following inscription:

HERE RESTETH THE BODY OF

MR ISAAC WALTON,

H

WHO DYED the 15 of DECEMBER

1683.

Alas! hee's gone before,

Gone to returne noe more!
Our panting Breasts aspire-
After their aged Sire

Whose wellspent life did last
Full ninety years and past,
But now he hath begun
That which will ne're be done,
Crown'd with eternall blisse,
We wish our Souls with his.

Votis modestis sic flerunt liberi.

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DEATH, THE SAGE, AND THE FOOL.

I.

HENCE with thy rhapsodies-the world-the world!

Wends on his reckless course the gay-the

young

Where Fashion hath her gonfalon unfurled,

And Beauty's Circe-lips have loudest sung! What, though the roses which fond childhood flung O'er his calm breast, are scorch'd by Passion's flame,

And all is desolate where they blushing sprung;

He seeks enjoyment, and loud laughs at fame,— He gains it-bitter gain: a mockery—but a name!

II.

Yet, though-albeit, in his wild career,

He join in midnight dance and revelry,— And doth, like tipsy pilot, madly steer

His reeling bark through passion's ruthless

sea,

Uncheer'd, unlustred by bright Beauty's eye, Long wont to shine, and kindly guidance give— (A constant cynosure from laughing sky),

Yet hath been his to some (sad) purpose live, And have a goal in life, though not a name survive!

III.

But 'tis not thus with cold and cloistered Sage,
Wasting in calculating dreams his day;
Till his shorn temples are besprent by age,
And manhood's sunshine yields to evening gray!
One constant task his rolling years display,-
His task of visioned mystics; whilome health
Fades like a morning mist away-away,—
And grim Death stalks with solemn-pacing
stealth,

To mar his full-blown hopes,-his heart's long-
hoarded wealth!

IV.

Then-then what boots the philosophic fire, That lit the sacred mansion of his breast? Freedom from Passion's thrall and young Desire,And stern rebuke of Beauty's soft behest, Sighing and pining to be fond carest?

Hath he enjoyed the loveliness of life,

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