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.