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 't was 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 : Who never us'd power , to oppress : A man ! who might ( in this ) with Caesar vye , Forgetting nothing but an injury . Wrap'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 t was 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 , T is 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 , 't is hard to tell What 's wanting , or , what unagreeable . What 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 , 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 Son 's the Sea ; Where ! 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 .