His melting eye showed that he had a soft heart, full of noble compassion; of too brave a soul to offer injuries, and too much a Christian not to pardon them in others.

He did much contemplate, especially after he entered into his sacred calling, the mercies of Almighty God, the immortality of the soul, and the joys of heaven, and would often say in a kind of sacred ecstasy, "Blessed be God that He is God, only and divinely like Himself."

He was by nature highly passionate, but more apt to reluct at the excesses of it. A great lover of the offices of humanity, and of so merciful a spirit that he never beheld the miseries of mankind without pity and relief.

He was earnest and unwearied in the search of knowledge, with which his vigorous soul is now satisfied, and employed in a continual praise of that God that first breathed it into his active body, that body which once was a temple of the Holy Ghost, and is now become a small quantity of Christian dust.

But I shall see it reanimated.

I W.

AN ELEGY ON DR. DONNE.

BY IZAAK WALTON.

Our Donne is dead! and we may sighing say,
We had that man, where language chose to stay,
And show her utmost power. I would not praise
That, and his great wit, which in our vain days
Make others proud; but as these served to unlock
That cabinet his mind, where such a stock
Of knowledge was reposed, that I lament
Our just and general cause of discontent.

And I rejoice I am not so severe,
But as I write a line, to weep a tear
For his decease; such sad extremities
Can make such men as I write elegies.

And wonder not for when so great a loss
Falls on a nation, and they slight the cross,
God hath raised prophets to awaken them
From their dull lethargy; witness my pen,
Not used to upbraid the world, though now it must
Freely and boldly, for the cause is just.

Dull age! Oh, I would spare thee, but thou'rt worse:
Thou art not only dull, but hast a curse

Of black ingratitude; if not, couldst thou
Part with this matchless man, and make no vow
For thee and thine successively to pay

Some sad remembrance to his dying day?

Did his youth scatter poetry, wherein Lay love's philosophy? was every sin Pictured in his sharp satires, made so foul,

That some have feared sin's shapes, and kept their soul

Safer by reading verse; did he give days,

Past marble monuments, to those whose praise

He would perpetuate? Did he--I fear

Envy will doubt—these at his twentieth year?

But, more matured, did his rich soul conceive
And in harmonious holy numbers weave
A crown of sacred sonnets, fit t' adorn
A dying martyr's brow, or to be worn

On that blest head of Mary Magdalen,

After she wiped Christ's feet, but not till then;
Did he-fit for such penitents as she

And he to use-leave us a Litany,

Which all devout men love, and doubtless shall,
As times grow better, grow more classical?
Did he write hymns, for piety and wit,
Equal to those great grave Prudentius writ?
Spake he all languages? Knew he all laws?
The grounds and use of physic; but, because
'Twas mercenary, waived it? went to see
That happy place of Christ's nativity?

Did he return and preach Him? preach Him so,
As since St. Paul none ever did? they know--

Those happy souls that heard him, know this truth.
Did he confirm thy aged? convert thy youth?

Did he these wonders? and is his dear loss
Mourned by so few? few for so great a cross.

But sure the silent are ambitious all
To be close mourners of his funeral.
If not, in common pity they forbear
By repetitions to renew our care:

Or knowing grief conceived and hid, consumes
Man's life insensibly, as poison's fumes

Corrupt the brain, take silence for the way
T'enlarge the soul from these walls, mud and clay,
Materials of this body, to remain

With him in heaven, where no promiscuous pain
Lessens those joys we have; for with him all

Are satisfied with joys essential.

Dwell on these joys, my thoughts! Oh! do not call

Grief back, by thinking on his funeral.

Forget he loved me: waste not my swift years,
Which haste to David's seventy, filled with fears
And sorrows for his death: forget his parts,
They find a living grave in good men's hearts:
And, for my first is daily paid for sin,
Forget to pay my second sigh for him :
Forget his powerful preaching; and forget
I am his convert. Oh my frailty! let
My flesh be no more heard: it will obtrude
This lethargy so should my gratitude,
My vows of gratitude should so be broke,
Which can no more be, than his virtues, spoke
By any but himself: for which cause, I
Write no encomiums, but this elegy,
Which as a freewill offering, I here give

Fame and the world; and parting with it, grieve

I want abilities fit to set forth

A monument, as matchless as his worth.

April 7, 1631.

Iz. WA.

LIFE OF SIR HENRY WOTTON.

SIR HENRY WOTTON, whose Life I now intend to write, was born in the year of our Redemption 1568, in Bocton Hall, commonly called Bocton, or Boughton Place, or Palace, in the parish of Bocton Malherbe, in the fruitful country of Kent. Bocton Hall, being an ancient and goodly structure, beautifying and being beautified by the parish church of Bocton Malherbe adjoining unto it, and both seated within a fair park of the Wottons, on the brow of such a hill as gives the advantage of a large prospect, and of equal pleasure to all beholders.

But this house and church are not remarkable for anything so much as for that the memorable family of the Wottons have so long inhabited the one, and now lie buried in the other, as appears by their many monuments in that church, the Wottons being a family that hath brought forth divers persons eminent for wisdom and valour, whose heroic acts and noble employments, both in England and in foreign parts, have adorned themselves and this nation, which they have served abroad faithfully in the discharge of their great trust, and prudently in their negotiations with several princes; and also served. at home with much honour and justice, in their wise managing a great part of the public affairs thereof, in the various times both of war and peace.

But lest I should be thought by any, that may incline. either to deny or doubt this truth, not to have observed moderation in the commendation of this family, and also for that I believe the merits and memory of such persons ought to be thankfully recorded, I shall offer to the consideration of every reader, out of the testimony of their pedigree and our chronicles, a part-and but a part —of that just commendation which might be from thence enlarged, and shall then leave the indifferent reader to judge whether my error be an excess or defect of commendations.

Sir Robert Wotton, of Bocton Malherbe, Knight, was born about the year of Christ 1460: he, living in the reign of King Edward the Fourth, was by him trusted to be Lieutenant of Guisnes, to be Knight Porter, and Comptroller of Calais, where he died, and lies honourably buried.

Sir Edward Wotton, of Bocton Malherbe, Knight, son and heir of the said Sir Robert, was born in the year of Christ 1489, in the reign of King Henry the Seventh; he was made Treasurer of Calais, and of the Privy Council to King Henry the Eighth, who offered him to be Lord Chancellor of England: but, saith Holinshed (in his "Chronicle "), out of a virtuous modesty he refused it.

Thomas Wotton, of Bocton Malherbe, Esquire, son and heir of the said Sir Edward, and the father of our Sir Henry that occasions this relation, was born in the year of Christ 1521. He was a gentleman excellently educated, and studious in all the liberal arts, in the knowledge whereof he attained unto a great perfection; who, though he had, besides those abilities, a very noble and plentiful estate, and the ancient interest of his predecessors, many invitations from Queen Elizabeth to change his country