Seeing The Duke Of Ormond's Picture, At Sir Godfrey Kneller's

Out from the injured canvas, Kneller, strike

These lines too faint; the picture is not like.

Exalt thy thought, and try thy toil again:

Dreadful in arms, on Landen's glorious plain

Place Ormond's Duke: impendent in the air

Let his keen sabre, comet-like, appear,

Where'er it points denouncing death: below

Draw routed squadrons, and the numerous foe

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 eyes

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 express

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.