from the injur'd Canvas, , strike
These Lines too faint: the Picture is not like.
Exalt thy Thought, and try thy Toil again:
Dreadful in Arms, on  glorious Plain
Place Ormond's Duke: impendent in the Air
Let His keen Sabre, Comet-like, appear,
Where-e'er it points, denouncing Death: below
Draw routed Squadrons, and the num'rous Foe
Falling beneath, or flying from His Blow:
'Till weak with Wounds, and cover'd o'er with Blood,
Which from the Patriot's Breast in Torrents flowed,
He faints: His Steed no longer hears the Rein;
But stumbles o'er the Heap, His Hand had slain.
And now exhausted, bleeding, pale He lyes;
Lovely, sad Object! in His half-clos' Eyes
Stern Vengeance yet, and Hostile Terror stand:
His Front yet threatens; and His Frowns command:
The  Chiefs their Troops around Him call;
Fear to approach Him, tho' they see Him fall. —