OUT from the injured 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'er it points, denouncing death. Below Draw routed squadrons, and the numerous foe Falling beneath, or flying from his blow; Till weak with wounds, and covered o'er with blood, Which from the patriot's breast in torrents flowed, He faints; his steed no longer feels the rein, But stumbles o'er the heap his hand had slain. And now exhausted, bleeding, pale he lies; Lovely, sad object! In his half-closed eyes Stern vengeance yet, and hostile terror stand; His front yet threatens, and his frowns command; The Gallic chiefs their troops around him call; Fear to approach him, though 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 laurels grow; In spite of Time thy work might ever shine, Nor Homer's colours last so long as thine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FOUR BROTHERS by CARL SANDBURG TO AN AEOLIAN HARP by SARA TEASDALE THE STORY OF SEVENTY-SIX by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE RIDE-BY-NIGHTS by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE THE RAILWAY TRAIN by EMILY DICKINSON TWICE by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI |