Izaac Walton

Some blame thee, honest Izaac! aye, and deem
Thy pastime cruel, by the silent stream
Of the unwooded Lea: but he, that warms
In eloquence of grief o'er suffering worms,
Throws by his mourning quill, and hunts the hare
Whole hours to death, yet feels no sorrow there.
Yet this mock sentimental man of moods
On every pastime but his own intrudes: —
Not so with thee, thou man of angel-mind!
That, like thy Master, gentle was, and kind;
Fit emblem of the prime apostles' days,
And worthy even of the Scripture praise;
For men of God's own heart must surely be
i Those honest souls that most resemble thee.