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 gool men
Dropt from an angel's wing : with moistened eye,
We read of faith, and purest charity,
In Statesmen, 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 on a summer night;
Or lonely tapers when from far they fling
A guiding ray; or seen-like stars on high,
Satellites burning in a lucid ring,
Around meek Walton's heavenly memory!