Treasure Island

Izaak Walton

(1593-1683 / England)

To My Reverend Friend The Author Of The Synagogue


Sir,

I lov'd you for your Synagogue, before
I knew your person; but now love you more;
Because I find
It is so true a picture of your mind:
Which tunes your sacred lyre
To that eternal quire;
Where holy _Herbert_ fits
(O shame to prophane wits)
And sings his and your Anthems, to the praise
Of Him that is the first and last of daies.

These holy Hymns had an Ethereal birth:
For they can raise sad souls above the earth
And fix them there
Free from the worlds anxieties and fear.
_Herbert_ and you have pow'r
To do this: ev'ry hour
I read you kills a sin,
Or lets a vertue in
To fight against it; and the Holy Ghost
Supports my frailties, lest the day be lost.

This holy war, taught by your happy pen,
The Prince of Peace approves. When we poor men
Neglect our arms,
W'are circumvested with a world of harms.
But I will watch, and ward,
And stand upon my guard,
And still consult with you,
And _Herbert_, and renew
My vows; and say, Well fare his, and your heart,
The fountains of such sacred wit and art.

Submitted: Tuesday, October 12, 2010
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