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 good Men,
Dropped from an Angel’s wing. With moistened eye
We read of faith and purest charity
In Statesman, Priest, and humble Citizen.
O, 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 in the woods of spring,
Or lonely tapers shooting far a light
That guides and cheers,—or seen, like stars on high,
Satellites burning in a lucid ring
Around meek Walton’s heavenly memory.