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MADAM
The Bard who first adorn’d our Native Tongue | |
| Tun’d to his British Lyre this ancient Song: | |
| Which Homer might without a Blush reherse, | |
| And leaves a doubtful Palm in Virgil’s Verse: | |
| He match’d their Beauties, where they most excell; | 5 |
| Of Love sung better, and of Arms as well. | |
| Vouchsafe, Illustrious Ormond, to behold | |
| What Pow’r the Charms of Beauty had of old; | |
| Nor wonder if such Deeds of Arms were done, | |
| Inspir’d by two fair Eyes that sparkled like your own. | 10 |
| If Chaucer by the best Idea wrought, | |
| And Poets can divine each other’s Thought, | |
| The fairest Nymph before his Eyes he set; | |
| And then the fairest was Plantagenet; | |
| Who three contending Princes made her Prize, | 15 |
| And rul’d the Rival-Nations with her Eyes: | |
| Who left Immortal Trophies of her Fame, | |
| And to the Noblest Order gave the Name. | |
| Like Her, of equal Kindred to the Throne, | |
| You keep her Conquests, and extend your own: | 20 |
| As when the Stars, in their Etherial Race, | |
| At length have roll’d around the Liquid Space, | |
| At certain Periods they resume their Place, | |
| From the same Point of Heav’n their Course advance, | |
| And move in Measures of their former Dance; | 25 |
| Thus, after length of Ages, she returns, | |
| Restor’d in you, and the same Place adorns: | |
| Or you perform her Office in the Sphere, | |
| Born of her Blood, and make a new Platonick Year. | |
| O true Plantagenet, O Race Divine, | 30 |
| (For Beauty still is fatal to the Line,) | |
| Had Chaucer liv’d that Angel-Face to view, | |
| Sure he had drawn his Emily from You; | |
| Or had You liv’d to judge the doubtful Right, | |
| Your Noble Palamon had been the Knight: | 35 |
| And Conqu’ring Theseus from his Side had sent | |
| Your Gen’rous Lord, to guide the Theban Government | |
| Time shall accomplish that; and I shall see | |
| A Palamon in him, in You an Emily. | |
| Already have the Fates your Path prepar’d, | 40 |
| And sure Presage your future Sway declar’d: | |
| When Westward, like the Sun, you took your Way, | |
| And from benighted Britain bore the Day, | |
| Blue Triton gave the Signal from the Shore, | |
| The ready Nereids heard, and swam before | 45 |
| To smooth the Seas; a soft Etesian Gale | |
| But just inspir’d, and gently swell’d the Sail; | |
| Portunus took his Turn, whose ample Hand | |
| Heav’d up the lighten’d Keel, and sunk the Sand, | |
| And steer’d the sacred Vessel safe to Land. | 50 |
| The Land, if not restrain’d, had met Your Way, | |
| Projected out a Neck, and jutted to the Sea. | |
| Hibernia, prostrate at your Feet, ador’d | |
| In You the Pledge of her expected Lord; | |
| Due to her Isle; a venerable Name; | 55 |
| His Father and his Grandsire known to Fame; | |
| Aw’d by that House, accustom’d to command, | |
| The sturdy Kerns in due subjection stand, | |
| Nor hear the Reins in any Foreign Hand. | |
| At Your Approach, they crowded to the Port; | 60 |
| And scarcely Landed, You create a Court: | |
| As Ormond’s Harbinger, to You they run, | |
| For Venus is the Promise of the Sun. | |
| The Waste of Civil Wars, their Towns destroy’d, | |
| Pales unhonour’d, Ceres unemploy’d, | 65 |
| Were all forgot; and one Triumphant Day | |
| Wipd all the Tears of three Campaigns away. | |
| Blood, Rapines, Massacres, were cheaply bought, | |
| So mighty Recompense Your Beauty brought. | |
| As when the Dove returning bore the Mark | 70 |
| Of Earth restor’d to the long-lab’ring Ark, | |
| The Relicks of Mankind, secure of Rest, | |
| Op’d every Window to receive the Guest, | |
| And the fair Bearer of the Message bless’d; | |
| So, when You came, with loud repeated Cries, | 75 |
| The Nation took an Omen from your Eyes, | |
| And God advanc’d his Rainbow in the Skies, | |
| To sign inviolable Peace restor’d; | |
| The Saints with solemn Shouts proclaim’d the new accord. | |
| When at Your second Coming You appear, | 80 |
| (For I foretell that Millenary Year) | |
| The sharpen’d Share shall vex the Soil no more, | |
| But Earth unbidden shall produce her Store: | |
| The Land shall laugh, the circling Ocean smile, | |
| And Heav’n’s Indulgence bless the Holy Isle. | 85 |
| Heav’n from all Ages has reserv’d for You | |
| That happy Clime, which Venom never knew; | |
| Or if it had been there, Your Eyes alone | |
| Have Pow’r to chase all Poyson, but their own. | |
| Now in this Interval, which Fate has cast | 90 |
| Betwixt Your Future Glories and Your Past, | |
| This Pause of Pow’r, ’tis Irelands Hour to mourn; | |
| While England celebrates Your safe Return, | |
| By which You seem the Seasons to command, | |
| And bring our Summers back to their forsaken Land. | 95 |
| The Vanquish’d Isle our Leisure must attend, | |
| Till the Fair Blessing we vouchsafe to send; | |
| Nor can we spare You long, though often we may lend. | |
| The Dove was twice employ’d abroad, before | |
| The World was dry’d; and she return’d no more. | 100 |
| Nor dare we trust so soft a Messenger, | |
| New from her Sickness, to that Northern Air; | |
| Rest here a while, Your Lustre to restore, | |
| That they may see You, as You shone before; | |
| For yet, th’ Eclipse not wholly past, You wade | 105 |
| Thro’ some Remains and Dimness of a Shade. | |
| A Subject in his Prince may claim a Right, | |
| Nor suffer him with Strength impair’d to fight; | |
| Till Force returns, his Ardour we restrain, | |
| And curb his Warlike Wish to cross the Main. | 110 |
| Now past the Danger, let the Learn’d begin | |
| Th’ Enquiry, where Disease could enter in; | |
| How those malignant Atoms forc’d their Way, | |
| What in the Faultless Frame they found to make their Prey? | |
| Where ev’ry Element was weigh’d so well, | 115 |
| That Heav’n alone, who mix’d the Mass, could tell | |
| Which of the Four Ingredients could rebel; | |
| And Where, imprison’d in so sweet a Cage, | |
| A Soul might well be pleas’d to pass an Age. | |
| And yet the fine Materials made it weak; | 120 |
| Porcelain by being Pure, is apt to break. | |
| Ev’n to Your Breast the Sickness durst aspire, | |
| And forc’d from that fair Temple to retire, | |
| Profanely set the Holy Place on Fire. | |
| In vain Your Lord, like young Vespasian, mourn’d, | 125 |
| When the fierce Flames the Sanctuary burn’d, | |
| And I prepar’d to pay in Verses rude | |
| A most detested Act of Gratitude: | |
| Ev’n this had been Your Elegy, which now | |
| Is offer’d for Your Health, the Table of my Vow. | 130 |
| Your Angel sure our Morley’s Mind inspir’d, | |
| To find the Remedy Your Ill requir’d; | |
| As once the Macedon, by Jove’s Decree, | |
| Was taught to dream an Herb for Ptolomee: | |
| Or Heav’n, which had such Over-cost bestow’d | 135 |
| As scarce it could afford to Flesh and Blood, | |
| So lik’d the Frame, he would not work anew, | |
| To save the Charges of another You. | |
| Or by his middle Science did he steer, | |
| And saw some great contingent Good appear, | 140 |
| Well worth a Miracle to keep You here, | |
| And for that End preserv’d the precious Mould, | |
| Which all the Future Ormonds was to hold; | |
| And meditated, in his better Mind | |
| An Heir from You who 1 may redeem the failing Kind. | 145 |
| Bless’d be the Power which has at once restor’d | |
| The Hopes of lost Succession to Your Lord; | |
| Joy to the first, and last of each Degree, | |
| Vertue to Courts, and, what I long’d to see, | |
| To You the Graces, and the Muse to me. | 150 |
| O daughter of the Rose, whose Cheeks unite | |
| The diff’ring Titles of the Red and White; | |
| Who Heav’ns alternate Beauty well display, | |
| The Blush of Morning, and the Milky Way; | |
| Whose Face is Paradise, but fenc’d from Sin: | 155 |
| For God in either Eye has placed a Cherubin. | |
| All is Your Lord’s alone; ev’n absent, He | |
| Employs the Care of Chast Penelope. | |
| For him You waste in Tears Your Widow’d Hours, | |
| For him Your curious Needle paints the Flow’rs; | 160 |
| Such Works of Old Imperial Dames were taught, | |
| Such for Ascanius, fair Elisa wrought. | |
| The soft Recesses of Your Hours improve | |
| The Three fair Pledges of Your Happy Love: | |
| All other Parts of Pious Duty done, | 165 |
| You owe Your Ormond nothing but a son, | |
| To fill in future Times his Father’s Place, | |
| And wear the Garter of his Mother’s Race. | |
