Classic Poem

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.