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-e'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 flowed, He faints: His Steed no longer hears the Rein; But stumbles o'er the Heap, His Hand had slain. And now exhausted, bleeding, pale He lyes; Lovely, sad Object! in His half-clos' Eyes Stern Vengeance yet, and Hostile Terror stand: His Front yet threatens; and His Frowns command: The Gallick Chiefs their Troops around Him call; Fear to approach Him, tho' 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 Lawrels grow: In spight of Time Thy Work might ever shine; Nor Homer's Colors last so long as Thine.