The sharpen'd share shall rex the soil no more,
But earth uhbidden shall produce her store :
The land shall laugh, the circling ocean smile,
And heaven's indulgence bless the holy isle.

Heaven from all ages has reserved for you
That happy clime, which venom never knew;
Or, if it had been there, your eyes alone
Have power to chase all poison but their own.

Now in this interval, which Fate has cast
Betwixt your future glories, and your past,
This pause of power 'tis Ireland's 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.

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,

Nor dare we trust so soft a messenger,
New from her sickness, to that northern air;
Rest here awhile, your lustre to restore,
That they may see you as you shone before :
For yet, th' eclipse not wholly past, you wadę
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.

Now past the danger, let the learn'd begin
Th' enquiry, where disease could enter in;

7. She was at this time, (Nov. 1699.) probably just re

TO THE DUCHESS OF ORMOND.

659

How those malignant atoms forced their way,
What in the faultless frame they found to make their

prey ?

Where every element was weigh'd so well,
That Heaven alone, whio 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 ;
Porcelain, by being pure, is apt to break :
Ev'n to your breast the sickness durst aspire;
And forced from that fair temple to retire,
Profanely set the holy place on fire.
In vain your Lord, like young Vespasian, mourn'd,
When the fierce flames the sanctuary burn'd;
And I prepared 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.

Your angel sure our Morley's 4 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 Ptolemy:
Or Heaven, which had such over-cost bestow'd,
As scarce it could afford to flesh and blood,
So liked 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,
Well worth a miracle to keep you here:
And for tliat end, preserved the precious mould,
Which all the future ORMONDS was to hold;

}

8 Dr. Christopher Love Morley, one of the College of Physicians.

660

TO THE DUCHESS OF ORMOND.

}

And meditated in his better mind
An heir from you, who may redeem the failing kind.

Blest be the Power, which has at once restored
The hopes of lost succession to your Lord ;
Joy to the first and last of each degree,
Virtue to courts, and, what I long'd to see,
To you the Graces, and the Muse to me!

O, daughter of the rose, whose cheeks unite
The diff’ring titles of the red and white;
Who heaven's alternate beauty well display,
The blush of morning, and the Milky Way;
Whose face is Paradise, but fenced from sin,
For God in either eye has placed a cherubin ;

All is your Lord's alone; ev'n absent, he
Employs the care of chaste Penelope.
For him you waste in tears your widow'd hours,
For him your curious needle paints the flow'rs:
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,
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.

9 The Duchess is here addressed as a descendant of the Plantagenets.

· Her son, Thomas, Earl of Ossory, had died at eight years old, in 1694. She never bore another son.

THE END.

FROM THE PRESS OF HENRY BALDWIN AND SON, NEW BRIDGE-STREET,

December 24, 1799.