University of Virginia Library

THE CABINET.

Three Sonnets suggested by the Cabinet that hung at Walton's Bed-head, now in the possession of C. Elkin Mathews, Esq., of Exeter.

I.

[Just here our Izaak must have laid the stress]

Just here our Izaak must have laid the stress
Of his true hand, full oft—just here have stood
Eying his books—Quarles, Sibbes, quaint brotherhood!
Or his own ‘Angler,’ fresh from Marriott's press.
Thus I behold him now—he turns the page
Of ‘hearty, cheerful Mr. Cotton's’ strain;
His face lights up—he sees the Dove again—
Sees Pike-pool, and that pretty hermitage,
The Fishing House. He marks the trout at play,
And casts his fly—swift turns the whizzing wheel—
A plump three-pounder pants within his creel.
And now his dream is done—he turns away.
Blest Shade, from out your heaven, forgive me this,
That where your hand was laid, I leave my kiss.

II.

[We have his books—we have this relic rare—]

We have his books—we have this relic rare—
Where hides his Angle-rod? .. My fancy wings
Its way to limbos of forgotten things,
And gropes, craves, questions, vainly, for it there.
Our Izaak's Angle-rod—a priceless prize!
At his death-hour, be sure he must have turned,
To where it stood, a lingering look that yearned,
With the last effort of his glazing eyes.
Our Izaak's Angle-rod! A pearl, a crown
Of preciousness, meet for some noble hoard,
Enriched with painter's pencil, hero's sword,
Relics of Love and Worship and Renown,—
Vanished from earth—O Angle-rod, wert given
In Izaak's hand to hold by streams of Heaven?

III.

[Better than bones of Saints apocryphal]

Better than bones of Saints apocryphal,
Fictions and figments of a doting creed,
This relic of our Izaak—saint, indeed,
Was he, of the true strain—a light for all
To walk by; on his sacred fame there lies
No shadow—truest Christian, tenderest friend—
In all your Kalendar, from end to end,
Find me his peer, ye Popes and hierarchies!
And by God's throne, and by the rivers fair,
That wind and wander through the happy land—
Where souls throng thickest on the golden strand,
Beatified—in peace beyond compare,
Whose bliss is fuller than our Izaak's bliss?
What soul doth wear a whiter robe than his?