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 Cover'D O'Er With Blood, Which From The Patriot'S Breast In Torrents Flow'D, He Faints: He Steed No Longer Hears 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 Thine, Nor Homer'S Colours Last So Long As Thine.