SEEING THE DUKE OF ORMOND'S PICTURE AT
SIR GODFREY KNELLER'S.
OUT from the injur'd 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 num❜rous 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: his steed no longer feels 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-clos'd 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 shine;
Nor Homer's colours last so long as thine.
IN IMITATION OF ANACREon.
LET them censure: what care I?
The herd of critics I defy.
Let the wretches know, I write
Regardless of their grace or spite.
No, no: the fair, the gay, the young
Govern the numbers of my song.
All that they approve is sweet:
And all is sense, that they repeat.
Bid the warbling nine retire;
Venus, string thy servant's lyre :
Love shall be my endless theme;
Pleasure shall triumph over fame :
And when these maxims I decline,
Apollo, may thy fate be mine:
May I grasp at empty praise;
And lose the nymph to gain the bays.
THE merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrow'd name:
Euphelia serves to grace my measure;
But Chloe is my
My softest verse, my darling lyre,
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay;
When Chloe noted her desire
That I should sing, that I should play.
My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,
But with my numbers mix my sighs;
And, whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes.
Fair Chloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:
I sung and gaz'd: I play'd and trembled:
And Venus, to the Loves around,
Remark'd, how ill we all dissembled.
THE pride of ev'ry grove I chose,
The violet sweet, and lily fair,
The dappled pink, and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Chloe's hair.
At morn the nymph vouchsaf'd to place
Upon her brow the various wreath;
The flow'rs less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath.
The flow'rs she wore along the day:
And ev'ry nymph and shepherd said,
That in her hair they look'd more gay,
Than glowing in their native bed.
* Suggested by a Greek epigram.
Undress'd at evening, when she found Their odours lost, their colours past, She chang'd her look, and on the ground Her garland and her eye she cast.
That eye dropp'd sense distinct and clear, As any Muse's tongue could speak; When, from its lid, a pearly tear
Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.
Dissembling what I knew too well,
My love, my life, said I, explain
This change of humour: prythee tell,
That falling tear—what does it mean?
She sigh'd; she smil'd: and to the flow'rs
Pointing, the lovely moralist said:
See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder, what a change is made.
Ah me! the blooming pride of May,
And that of beauty are but one:
At morn both flourish, bright and gay,
Both fade at evening, pale, and gone.
At dawn poor Stella danc'd and sung;
The am'rous youth around her bow'd:
At night her fatal knell was rung;
I saw, and kiss'd her in her shroud.
Such as she is, who died to-day,
Such I, alas! may be to-morrow;
Go, Damon, bid thy muse display
The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow.
THE LADY WHO OFFERS HER LOOKING-GLASS TO
VENUS, take my votive glass,
Since I am not what I was,
What from this day I shall be,
Venus, let me never see.
MISS DANAE, when fair and young,
(As Horace has divinely sung,)
Could not be kept from Jove's embrace
By doors of steel, and walls of brass.
The reason of the thing is clear,
Would Jove the naked truth aver:
Cupid was with him of the party,
And show'd himself sincere and hearty;
For, give that whipster but his errand,
He takes my Lord Chief Justice' warrant;
Dauntless as death away he walks;
Breaks the doors open; snaps the locks;
|