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 2 glorious plain

1 James Duke of Ormond, eldest son of Thomas, Earl of Ossory. He succeeded his grandfather in title and estate in the year 1688; was bred at Christ Church in the University of Oxford, and after holding many considerable posts during the reigns of King William and Queen Anne, was, in the beginning of the reign of George the First, attainted of high treason on account of his being concerned in the unpopular measures of the last four years of Queen Anne's reign. He died in exile in the year 1745, in a very advanced age.

2 At the battle of Landen the Duke of Ormond was taken prisoner after his horse was shot under him, and he had received many wounds. Mr. Dryden, in his dedication prefixed to his Fables in the year 1699, says, "Yet not to be wholly silent of all your charities, I must stay a little on one action, which preferred the relief of others to the consideration of yourself. When, in the battle of Landen, your heat of courage (a fault only pardonable to your youth) had transported you so far before your friends, that they were unable to follow, much less to succour you; when you were not only dangerously, but in all appearance mortally wounded, when in that desperate condition you were made prisoner, and carried to Namur, at that time in possession of the French; then it was, my Lord, that you took a considerable part of what was remitted to you of your own revenues, and

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 ;

as a memorable instance of your heroic charity, put it into the hands of Count Guiscard, who was Governor of the place, to be distributed among your fellow-prisoners. The French commander, charmed with the greatness of your soul, accordingly consigned it to the use for which it was intended by the donor: by which means the lives of so many miserable men were saved, and a comfortable provision made for their subsistence, who had otherwise perished, had not you been the companion of their misfortune: or rather sent by Providence, like another Joseph, to keep out famine from invading those, whom in humility you called your brethren. How happy was it for those poor creatures, that your grace was made their fellow-sufferer! and how glorious for you, that you chose to want, rather than not relieve the wants of others! The heathen poet, in commending the charity of Dido to the Trojans, spoke like a Christian: Non ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco. All men, even those of a different interest, and contrary principles, must praise this action, as the most eminent for piety, not only in this degenerate age, but almost in any of the former; when men were made de meliore luto; when examples of charity were frequent, and when they were in being, Teucri pulcherrima proles, magnanimi heroes nati melioribus annis. No envy can detract from this; it will shine in history; and, like swans, grow whiter the longer it endures: and the name of Ormond will be more celebrated in his captivity, than in his greatest triumphs."

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.

CELIA TO DAMON.

Atque in amore mala hæc proprio, summeque secundo

Inveniuntur

WHAT can

LUCRET. lib. iv.

I say, what arguments can prove My truth, what colours can describe my love;

If its excess and fury be not known,

In what thy Celia has already done?

Thy infant flames, whilst yet they were conceal'd

In tim❜rous doubts, with pity I beheld ;
With easy smiles dispell'd the silent fear,
That durst not tell me what I died to hear:
In vain I strove to check my growing flame,

Or shelter passion under friendship's name:
You saw my heart, how it my tongue belied;
And when you press'd, how faintly I denied—
Ere guardian thought could bring its scatter'd

aid;

Ere reason could support the doubting maid ;
My soul surpris'd, and from herself disjoin'd,
Left all reserve, and all the sex behind:
From your command her motions she receiv'd;
And not for me, but you, she breath'd and liv’d.
But ever blest be Cytherea's shrine,

And fires eternal on her altars shine;

Since thy dear breast has felt an equal wound;
Since in thy kindness my desires are crown'd,
By thy each look, and thought, and care, 'tis shown,
Thy joys are centred all in me alone;

And sure I am, thou wouldst not change this hour
For all the white ones Fate has in its power.—

Yet thus belov'd, thus loving to excess,
Yet thus receiving and returning bliss,
In this great moment, in this golden now,
When every trace of what, or when, or how
Should from my soul by raging love be torn,
And far on swelling seas of rapture borne;
A melancholy tear afflicts my eye;
And my heart labours with a sudden sigh:
Invading fears repel my coward joy,
And ills foreseen the present bliss destroy.

Poor as it is, this Beauty was the cause,

That with first sighs your panting bosom rose:

But with no owner Beauty long will stay,
Upon the wings of Time borne swift away:
Pass but some fleeting years, and these poor eyes
(Where now without a boast some lustre lies)
No longer shall their little honours keep;
Shall only be of use to read, or weep:

And on this forehead, where your verse has said,
The Loves delighted, and the Graces play'd,
Insulting Age will trace his cruel way,

And leave sad marks of his destructive sway. Mov'd by my charms, with them your love may

cease,

And as the fuel sinks, the flame decrease:
Or angry Heav'n may quicker darts prepare,
And Sickness strike what Time awhile would spare.
Then will my swain his glowing vows renew;
Then will his throbbing heart to mine beat true ;
When my own face deters me from my glass;
And Kneller only shows what Celia was.

Fantastic fame may sound her wild alarms :
Your country, as you think, may want your arms.
You may neglect, or quench, or hate the flame,
Whose smoke too long obscur'd your rising name:
And quickly cold indiff'rence will ensue;
When you Love's joys through Honour's optic view.
Then Celia's loudest prayer will prove too weak,
To this abandon'd breast to bring you back ;
When my lost lover the tall ship ascends,
With music gay, and wet with jovial friends :
The tender accents of a woman's cry