To his Grace JAMES Duke of Ormond, &c, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, On his return to that Government.
NOt that the Soul of Poesy was flown,
Or wanted Argument to Work upon;
Or that the Air was thick, or that the Muse
Was cramm'd with ease, or bedrid with disuse,
Has she kept state, or Chamber, all this while,
Or as 'twas thought by some, forsook the Isle;
But that she mis't, since your departure hence,
Her Patron, and his wonted influence.
Banisht from Plato's Comonwealth, and from
Saint Austin's City, wanting You at home,
What could she doe? she rov'd or'e ground vntrod,
Dark as her Fancie, neither track, nor rode;
Till tir'd with notions, satisfied with none,
She fancy'd an Idea of her owne.
A man, of Plato's grand Nobility,
An imbred greatness, innate honesty;
A man, not fram'd of Accidents; And whom,
Misfortune might oppress, not overcome:
One, who lov'd vertue for her self; and still
Was good, not by necessity, but will:
Who did, but what he ought; what's just, and fit;
And never biast by an Appetite:
Who weigh'd himself, not by Opinion,
But Conscience of a Worthy action:
[Page] Who, like the Sun, by how much higher, the less
His shaddow: Who never vs'd power, to oppress:
A man! who might (in this) with Caesar vye,
Forgetting nothing, but an injury.
Rap't in that melancholy trance, she heard
The Name of Ormond! At that mighty word,
She stretcht; and fell to ruminate her dream,
Not guessing yet, whence she had took the theam;
'Till calling in her Spirits, at next view
Found, 'twas no more, than what sh'ad sketcht from You,
You! than in whom (Great Sir) Achilles Shield
Did not more Multitude, nor Mixture yield,
Nor better put together: As in Paint,
'Tis not a single Colour makes the Saint,
Nor all, if not well mingled; There must be,
Proportion too, and correspondency:
Such is Your chain of Vertues; What elsewhere
Lay loose, and scatter'd, are constellat here;
And those, so truely linkt, 'tis hard to tell
What's wanting, or, what vnagreeable.
What but a soul so fram'd, had ever dar'd
Stemme the late Torrent, and have not despair'd
His Masters fortune? What? what but a breast
Lin'd through with Cato, durst have stood the Test?
Or would not, when the Sun did disappear,
Have kist his hand unto a Meteor?
Such too, were You; You! who almost alone.
Durst grasp a Spear, and vnderprop a Crown;
Durst, Loyalty (when't was a Crime) retrive,
And force it back to its forsaken Hive.
But, what am I, who thus persume to raise
A Trophy, to Your memory, not praise:
Your Vrne must bloom; And that last Dust stand safe,
Which has two Kingdoms for an Epitaph:
Nor can it, till the Sea gives up its dead,
Butâ–ª Ossory, and Arran, must be read:
Yet—while You fill the Land, Your Sons the Sea;
Where! where (Alas!) shall the next Ormond be?
[Page] He must, like Sultans, who themselves allow
To build no Mosche, but what their Swords endow,
He must enlarge, or sweat for want of roome,
And croud himself within his Grandsires Tombe.
Tombe! Let it not be nam'd; The Sound's too Sharp;
May You, yet live, to tune our jarring Harp;
Sweeten her strings, and make the World confess
Discords, make Musick more, but Kingdomes less:
May Your return, like the encrease of Nile,
Bode the like happy Omen to this Isle:
Long may You shine, a Star in CHARLES his Wain,
And, disarm'd Fortune, make attaques in vain:
Be, like the vpper Region secur'd;
Not shook by Thunder, nor by Clouds obscur'd:
Thus live; Thus shine; Thus, Ages read your story;
And, to Crown all, Exchange Your Grace, for Glory.