Imágenes de página
PDF
ePub

one thousand six hundred eighty-three. IZAAK WALWitness to this will.

TON.

The rings I give, are as on the other side. To my brother John Ken; to my sister, his wife; to my brother, Doctor Ken; to my sister Pye; to Mr. Francis Morley; to Mr. George Vernon; to his wife; to his three daughters; to Mistris Nelson; to Mr. Richard Walton; to Mr. Palmer; to Mr. Taylor; to Mr. Thomas Garrard; to the Lord Bishop of Sarum; to Mr. Rede, his servant; to my cousin Dorothy Kenrick; to my cousin Lewin; to Mr. Walter Higgs; to Mr. Charles Cotton; to Mr. Richard Marryot: 22. To my brother Beacham; to my sister, his wife; to the lady Anne How; to Mrs. King, Doctor Phillips's wife; to Mr. Valentine Harecourt; to Mrs. Eliza Johnson; to Mrs. Mary Rogers; to Mrs. Eliza Milward; to Mrs. Dorothy Wollop; to Mr. Will. Milward, of Christ-church, Oxford; to Mr. John Darbyshire; to Mr. Undevill; to Mrs. Rock; to Mr. Peter White; to Mr. John Lloyde; to my cousin Creinsell's Widow; Mrs. Dalbin must not be forgotten 16. IZAAK WALTON. Note, that several lines are blotted out of this will, for they were twice repeated, and that this will is now signed and sealed this twenty and fourth day of October, one thousand six hundred eighty-three, in the presence of us: Witness, Abraham Markland, Jos. Taylor, Thomas Crawley.

[The following are the verses mentioned on page lxxviii.]

THE RETIREMENT.

STANZES IRREGULIERS,

ΤΟ

MR. IZAAK WALTON.

I.

FAREWELL, thou busy world, and may
We never meet again;

Here I can eat, and sleep, and pray,
And do more good in one short day
Than he who his whole age out-wears
Upon the most conspicuous theatres,
Where nought but vanity and vice appears.

II.

Good God! how sweet are all things here!
How beautiful the fields appear!

How cleanly do we feed and lie!
Lord! what good hours do we keep!
How quietly we sleep!

What peace, what unanimity! How innocent from the lewd fashion Is all our business, all our recreation!

III.

Oh how happy here 's our leisure!
Oh how innocent our pleasure!
Oh ye valleys, Oh ye mountains!
Oh ye groves and crystal fountains,
How I love, at liberty,

By turns to come and visit ye!

IV.

Dear solitude, the soul's best friend,
That man acquainted with himself dost make,
And all his Maker's wonders to intend:
With thee I here converse at will,

And would be glad to do so still,

For it is thou alone, that keep'st the soul awake.

V.

How calm and quiet a delight

Is it, alone,

To read, and meditate, and write,

By none offended, and offending none!

To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own ease!
And, pleasing a man's self, none other to displease.

VI.

Oh my beloved nymph, fair Dove!

Princess of rivers! how I love

Upon thy flowery banks to lie,

And view thy silver stream,

When gilded by a summer's beam!
And in it, all thy wanton fry,
Playing at liberty:

And, with my angle, upon them
The all of treachery

I ever learnt, industriously to try.

VII.

Such streams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot show,
The Iberian Tagus, or Ligurian Po;

The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine

Are puddle water all, compared with thine :
And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted are
With thine, much purer, to compare :

The rapid Garonne, and the winding Seine,
Are both too mean,

Beloved Dove, with thee

To vie priority;

Nay, Thame and Isis, when conjoined, submit,
And lay their trophies at thy silver feet.

VIII.

Oh my beloved rocks! that rise

To awe the earth and brave the skies,
From some aspiring mountain's crown,
How dearly do I love,

Giddy with pleasure, to look down;

And, from the vales, to view the noble heights above! Oh my beloved caves! from dog-star's heat

And all anxieties my safe retreat :

What safety, privacy, what true delight,

In the artificial night

Your gloomy entrails make,

Have I taken, do I take !

How oft, when grief has made me fly,

To hide me from society

Even of my dearest friends, have I,

In your recesses' friendly shade,

All my sorrows open laid,

And

my most secret woes intrusted to your privacy!

IX.

Lord! would men let me alone,
What an over-happy one

Should I think myself to be;
Might I in this desert place

(Which most men in discourse disgrace)
Live but undisturbed and free!
Here, in this despised recess,

Would I, maugre winter's cold
And the summer's worst excess,
Try to live out to sixty full years old:
And, all the while,
Without an envious eye

On any thriving under fortune's smile,
Contented live, and then contented die.

C. C.

« AnteriorContinuar »