TALE S

FROM

CHAUCER.

VOL. III.

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DUTCHESS OF ORMOND.

With the following POEM of

PALAMON AND ARCITE.

MADAM,

T

HE bard who first adorn'd our native tongue, Tun'd to his British lyre this ancient fong: Which Homer might without a blush rehearse, And leaves a doubtful palm in Virgil's verfe: He match'd their beauties, where they moft excel; Of love fung better, and of arms as well.

Vouchsafe, illuftrious Ormond, to behold What power the charms of beauty had of old; Nor wonder if fuch deeds of arms were done, Infpir'd by two fair eyes that sparkled like your own. If Chaucer by the beft idea wrought,

And poets can divine each other's thought,
The fairest nymph before his eyes he fet ;
And then the faireft was Plantagenet;

Who three contending princes made their prize,
And rul'd the rival nations with her eyes:
Who left immortal trophies of her fame,
And to the nobleft order gave the name.

Like her, of equal kindred to the throne,
You keep her conquefts, and extend your own;
As when the ftars in their etherial race,
At length have roll'd around the liquid fpace,
At certain periods they refume their place,
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From the fame point of heaven their course advance

And move in measures of their former dance;
Thus, after length of ages, fhe returns,
Reftor'd in you, and the fame place adorns ;
Or you perform her office in the sphere,
Born of her blood, and make a new platonic year.
O true Plantagenet, O race divine,
(For beauty ftill 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;
And conqu'ring Thefeus from his fide had fent
Your gen'rous lord, to guide the Theban government.
Time fhall accomplish that; and I fhall fee
A Palamon in him, in you an Emily.
Already have the fates your path prepar'd,
And fure prefage your future fway declar'd:
When weftward, like the fun, you took your way,
And from benighted Britain bore the day,
Blue Triton gave the fignal from the shore,
The ready Nereids heard, and swam before
To smooth the feas; a foft Etefian gale
But just infpir'd, and gently fwell'd the fail;
Portunus took his turn, whose ample hand
Heav'd up his lighten'd keel, and funk the fand,
And fteer'd the facred veffel fafe to land.
The land, if not reftrain'd, had met your way,
Projected out a neck, and jutted to the fea.
Hibernia, proftrate at your feet, ador'd
In you, the pledge of her expected lord;
Due to her ifle; a venerable name;

. His father and his grandfire known to fame;
Aw'd by that house, accuftom'd to command,
The sturdy Kerns in due fubjection stand;
Nor bear the reins in any foreign hand.

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At your approach, they crouded to the port;
And scarcely landed, you create a court:
As Ormond's harbinger, to you they run;
For Venus is the promife of the fun.

The waste of civil wars, their towns destroy'd,
Pales unhonor'd, Ceres unemploy'd,

Were all forgot; and one triumphant day
Wip'd all the tears of three campaigns away.
Blood rapines, maffacres, were cheaply bought,
So mighty recompence your beauty brought.
As when the dove returning bore the mark
Of earth reftor'd to the long lab'ring ark,
The relics of mankind, fecure of reft,
Op'd ev'ry window to receive the guest,
And the fair bearer of the meffage blefs'd;
So, when you came, with loud repeated cries,
The nation took an omen from your eyes,
And God advanc'd his rainbow in the skies,

To fign inviolable peace reftor'd;

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The faints with folemn fhouts proclaim'd the new accord.
When at your fecond coming you appear,
(For I foretel that millenary year)

The sharpen'd share shall vex the foil no more,
But earth unbidden fhall produce her store;
The land fhall laugh, the circling ocean fmile,
And heav'n's indulgence bless the holy ifle.
Heav'n from all ages has referv'd for you
That happy clime, which venom never new ;
Or if it had been there, your eyes alone
Have power to chafe all poison, but their own.
Now in this interval, which fate has caft
Betwixt your future glories, and your paft,
This pause of pow'r, 'tis Ireland's hour to mourn;
While England celebrates your fafe return,
By which you seem the feasons to command,
And bring our fummers back to their forfaken land.

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