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 crammed 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 missed, since your departure hence,  
Her Patron, and his wont influence.  
Banished from Plato's Commonwealth, and from  
Saint Austin's City, wanting You at home,  
What could she do? she roved o'er ground untrod,  
Dark as her Fancy, neither tract, nor road;  
Till tired with notions, satisfied with none,  
She fancied an Idea of her own.  
A man, of Plato's grand Nobility,  
An imbred greatness, innate honesty;  
A man, not framed of Accidents; And whom,  
Misfortune might oppress, not overcome:  
One, who loved virtue for herself; and still  
Was good, not by necessity, but will:  
Who did, but what he ought; what's just, and fit;  
And never bias by an Appetite:  
Who weighed himself, not by Opinion,  
But Conscience of a Worthy action:  
Who, like the Sun, by how much higher, the less  
His shadow: Who never used power, to oppress:  
A man! who might (in this) with Caesar vie,  
Forgetting nothing, but an injury.  
Raped in that melancholy trance, she heard  
The Name of Ormond! At that mighty word,  
She stretched; and fell to ruminate her dream,  
Not guessing yet, whence she had took the theme;  
Till calling in her Spirits, at next view  
Found, 'twas no more, than what she'd 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 Virtues; What elsewhere  
Lay loose, and scattered, are constellat here;  
And those, so truly linked, 'tis hard to tell  
What's wanting, or, what unagreeable.  
What but a soul so framed, had ever dared  
Stem the late Torrent, and have not despaired  
His Master's fortune? What? what but a breast  
Lined through with Cato, durst have stood the Test?  
Or would not, when the Sun did disappear,  
Have kissed his hand unto a Meteor?  
Such too, were You; You! who almost alone.  
Dared grasp a Spear, and underprop a Crown;  
Durst, Loyalty (when't was a Crime) retrieve,  
And force it back to its forsaken Hive.  
But, what am I, who thus presume to raise  
A Trophy, to Your memory, not praise:  
Your Urn 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,  
But▪ Ossory, and Arran, must be read:  
Yet— while You fill the Land, Your Sons the Sea;  
Where! where (Alas!) shall the next Ormond be?  
He must, like Sultan's, who themselves allow  
To build no Mosche, but what their Swords endow,  
He must enlarge, or sweat for want of room,  
And crowd himself within his Grandsire's Tomb.  
Tomb! Let it not be named; The Sound's too Sharp;  
May You, yet live, to tune our jarring Harp;  
Sweeten her strings, and make the World confess  
Discords, make Music more, but Kingdoms less:  
May Your return, like the increase of Nile,  
Bode the like happy Omen to this Isle:  
Long may You shine, a Star in CHARLES his Wain,  
And, disarmed Fortune, make attaques in vain:  
Be, like the upper Region secured;  
Not shaken by Thunder, nor by Clouds obscured:  
Thus live; Thus shine; Thus, Ages read your story;  
And, to Crown all, Exchange Your Grace, for Glory.