Whilst all the ills are so improved, Of this dead quarter of the year, That even you, so much beloved, We would not now wish with us here; In this estate, I say, it is Some comfort to us to suppose, That, in a better clime than this, You, our dear friend, have more repose; And some delight to me the while, Though nature now does weep in rain, To think that I have seen her smile, And haply may I do again. If the all-ruling Power please We live to see another May, We'll recompense an age of these Foul days in one fine fishing day. We then shall have a day or two, Perhaps a week, wherein to try What the best master's hand can do With the most deadly killing fly: A day with not too bright a beam, A warm, but not a scorching sun, A southern gale to curl the stream, and, master, half our work is done. There, whilst behind some bush we wait The scaly people to betray,-- We'll prove it just, with treacherous bait To make the preying _Trout_ our prey. And think ourselves, in such an hour, Happier than those, though not so high, Who, like _Leviathans_, devour Of meaner men the smaller fry. This, my best friend, at my poor home Shall be our pastime and our theme; But then--should you not deign to come, You make all this a flattering dream. In wandering over the lovely scenes, the pleasant brooks, the flower-bespangled meadows, which the moral pages of Isaac Walton so unaffectedly delineate, it is impossible not to recur to the name of the late author of _Salmonia_, and to reflect, that on these pages he oft unbended his vigorous mind from his severe and brilliant discoveries. We can now only lament the (almost) premature death of this high-ranked philosopher, this great benefactor to the arts, and deep promoter of science, whose mortal remains were consigned to his unostentatious tomb, at Geneva, in one of the finest evenings of summer, followed by the eloquent and amiable historian, De Sismondi, and by other learned and illustrious men. One may apply to his last moments at Geneva, (where he had arrived only one day before) these lines of his own favourite Herbert:-- _Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky, Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night, For thou must die!_[69] SAMUEL GILBERT'S portrait is prefixed to his "Florist's Vade Mecum;" 12mo. In his "Gardener's Almanack," is a particular description of the roses cultivated in the English gardens at that period. He was the author of "Fons Sanitatis, or the Healing Spring at Willowbridge Wells." He was son-in-law to John Rea, the author of Flora, and who planned the gardens at Gerard's Bromley. Willowbridge Wells are at a little distance from where these once superb gardens were.