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 Bed-rid 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 Pla'o's Common-wealth and from
Saint Austin's City, wanting You at home,
What could she do? she rov;d or'e ground untrod,
Dark as her Fancy, neither track, nor rode;
Till tir'd with notions, satisfied with none,
She fancy'd an Idea of her own.
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:
Who, like the Sun, by how much higher, the less
His shaddow: VVho never us'd power, to oppress:
A man! who might (in this) with Caesar vye,
Forgetting nothing but an injury.
VVrap'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 the single Colour makes the Saint,
Nor all, if not well mingled; There must be,
Proportion too, and correspondency:
Such is Your chain of Vertue; what elsewhere
Lay loose, and scatter'd, are constellat here;
And those so truly linkt, 'tis hard to tell
VVhat's wanting, or, what unagreeable.
VVhat but a soul so fram'd, had ever dar'd
Stemme the late Torrent,
In the late Rebellion.
and have not despair'dHis 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 underprop a Crown?
Durst, Loyalty (when't was a Crime) retrive,
And force it back to i [...]s forsaken Hive.
But, what am I, who thus presume to raise
A Trophy to Your Memory, not praise:
Your Urne must bloom; and that last Dust stand safe,
VVhich has two Kingdoms for an Epitaph:
Nor can it, till the Sea gives up its Dead,
But Ossory, and Arran, must be read:
Yet—while You fill the Land, Your Son's the Sea;
VVhere! where (Alas!) shall the next Ormond be?
He must, like Sultans, who themselves allow
To build no Mosche, but what their Swords endow,
He must enlarge, or sweat for want of room,
And croud himself within his Grandfires Tombe.
Tombe! Let it not be nam'd; the Sounds 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 upper Region secur'd;
Not shook by Thunder, nor by Clouds obscurd:
Thus live; Thus shine; Thus, Ages read yourstory;
And to Crown all Exchange Your Grace, for Glory.
Jo. Wilson.
Licensed Octob. 15. 1677.
Roger L'Estrange.
Printed by H. Brugis, for T. Vere, at the Angel without Newgate, 1677.