To His Grace James Duke of Ormond, &c. Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, on his return to that government.

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'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 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.