Seeing The Duke Of Ormonds Picture At Sir Godfrey Knellers

Out from the injured canvas,

Kneller,

These lines too faint; the picture is not like.

Exalt thy thought, and try thy toil again:

Dreadful in arms, on Landen's glorious

Place Ormond's Duke: impendent in the

Let his keen sabre, comet-like, appear,

Where'er it points denouncing death:

Draw routed squadrons, and the numerous

Falling beneath, or flying from his blow;

Till weak with wounds, and cover'd o'er with blood,

Which from the patriot's breast in torrents flow'd,

He faints: he steed no longer hears the rein,

But stumbles o'er the heap his hand had slain.

And now exhausted, bleeding, pale he lies,

Lovely, sad object! in his half-closed

Stern Vengeance yet and hostile Terror stand:

His front yet threatens, and his frowns command.

The Gallic chiefs their troops around him call,

Fear to approach him, though they see him fall.

O Kneller! could thy shades and lights

The perfect hero in that glorious dress,

Ages to come might Ormond's picture know,

And palms for thee beneath his laurels grow;

In spite of time thy work might ever thine,

Nor Homer's colours last so long as thine.