THE ANGLER'S WISH.

BY IZAAK WALTON.

[IZAAK WALTON was born at Stafford, in 1593. He kept a very small linendraper's shop, first at the Royal Exchange, and then in Fleet Street, at the corner of Chancery Lane; and retained in the midst of London, notwithstanding the closest attention to business, an enthusiastic attachment to the country, its scenes, and its pleasures. He married a lady of respectable family, which was probably the cause of his introduction to many eminent persons. He retired from business in 1643, and lived for forty years afterwards in literary retirement, during which time he wrote a number of works; nor did he relax his labours as an author, until he died, in his ninetieth year. He was buried at Winchester. His "Complete Angler" is a book which will live as long as the love of country life exists. He was accustomed to say that “God never did make a more calm, quiet, innocent recreation than angling."]

I IN these flowery meads would be;
These crystal streams should solace me;
To whose harmonious bubbling noise,

I with my angle would rejoice;

Sit here, and see the turtle-dove

Court his chaste mate to acts of love;

Or on the bank feel the west wind

Breathe health and plenty: please my mind,
To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers,
And then washed off by April showers;
Here, hear my Kenna sing a song;
There, see a blackbird feed her young,

Or a laverock build her nest :

Here give my weary spirits rest,

And raise my low-pitch'd thoughts above

Earth, or what poor mortals love:

Thus, free from lawsuits and the noise

Of princes' courts, I would rejoice.

Or, with my Bryan and a book,

Loiter long days near Shawford brook; There sit by him, and eat my meat, There see the sun both rise and set, There bid good morning to next day, There meditate my time away,

And angle on; and beg to have

A quiet passage to a welcome grave.

THE DAY OF WRATH.

BY THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON.

[THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON, nephew to the celebrated Earl of Strafford, was born in 1633. He resided abroad during the Civil War, but returned to England at the Restoration, and was made, first, Captain of the band of Pensioners, and afterwards Master of the Horse to the Duchess of York. Foreseeing what would result from the arbitrary measures of James II. he was about to set out for Rome, declaring that "it was best to sit near the chimney, when the chamber smoked;" but a fit of the gout prevented his leaving England, and he died in 1684.

Like Denham, he was addicted to gambling, but this did not prevent him from devoting himself zealously to literature; and he was warmly praised both by Dryden and Pope. Posterity, however, has not confirmed their judgment. He was an elegant, but a cold and unimpassioned writer. He died repeating two lines of his own translation of the "Dies Iræ," which follows:-]

THAT day of wrath, that dreadful day,

Shall the whole world in ashes lay,

As David and the Sibyls say.

What horror will invade the mind,

When the strict Judge, who would be kind,
Shall have few venial faults to find!

The last loud trumpet's wondrous sound

Shall through the rending tombs rebound,

And wake the nations under ground.

Nature and Death shall, with surprise,

Behold the pale offender rise,

And view the Judge with conscious eyes.

H H

Then shall, with universal dread,

The sacred mystic book be read,
To try the living and the dead.

The Judge ascends His awful throne;
He makes each secret sin be known,
And all with shame confess their own.

O then, what interest shall I make

To save my last important stake,
When the most just have cause to quake?

Thou mighty formidable King,

Thou mercy's unexhausted spring,

Some comfortable pity bring!

Forget not what my ransom cost,
Nor let my dear-bought soul be lost
In storms of guilty terror tost.

Prostrate my contrite heart I rend;

My God, my Father, and my Friend,

Do not forsake me in my end!

Well may they curse their second breath,

Who rise to a reviving death.

Thou great Creator of mankind,
Let guilty man compassion find