Yet I confefs my Patriot Heart
In Britain's Welfare bears its Part;
With Transport glows at GEORGE's Name,
And triumphs in its Country's Fame:
With hourly Pleasure I can fit
And talk of Granby, Hawke, and Pitt;
And whilst I praise the Good and Brave,
Difdain the Coward and the Knave.
At Growth of Taxes others fret,
And fhudder at the Nation's Debt;
I ne'er the fancied Ills bemoan,
No Debts difturb me, but my own.
What! tho' our Coffers fink, our Trade
Repairs the Breach which War has made;
And if Expences now run high,
Our Minds must with our Means comply.
Thus far my Politicks extend,
And here my warmest Wishes end,
May Merit flourish, Faction cease,

And I and Europe live in Peace!

An

ODE to CRITICISM.*

By Mr. WOD HULL.

Mutemus Clypeos, DANAUMQUE Infignia NOBIS
Aptemus. Dolus, an Virtus, quis in Hofte requirit? VIRGIL.

I.

TAIL, mighty Goddefs, whom of yore,

HA

Where fam'd Cimmeria boasts her tenfold Gloom, In those deep Caverns, from her lab'ring Womb Imperial Dulness bore.

At the Signal of thy Birth,

O'er the Rue-befprinkled Earth,

Slowly fullen Spleen advances,

Sneering Laughter joins the Dances,

Swift from her Den exulting Envy springs, New trims her faded Torch, and sharpens all her Stings,

II.

Farewel, ye Vifions light and vain,

The Delian Grove, with its enchanted Rill,
The cloven Summits of Parnaffus' Hill,

Chimeras of the Brain.

* This Poem appeared foon after the Publication of the Oxford Verfes on the Death of his late Majesty.

No more fuch Follies I purfue

Thee, fober-vefted Queen, I woo;
Thy propitious Help imploring,

As by Midnight Taper poring,

With ftudious Care I mark fome faulty Line,

Then curfe the Theban Harp, or Homer's Work divine.

III.

Here in my hateful, lonesome Cell,

While Darkness spreads her murky Veil around,
When Pains corode, and ftormy Paffions wound,
With thee I wish to dwell.

Tho' Apollo bids despair,

Nor a Muse regards my Pray'r;

Still with ever conftant Kindness,

'Thou wilt footh my votive Blindness;

I feel, I feel the maddening Influence reigns, The black Bile rushes on, and revels in my Veins.

IV.

Borne on the rapid Wings of Thought,

E'en now I feem, in thy extenfive Shade,
Where baleful Yews o'ercome the fickening Glade,
To quaff the plenteous Draught,

And behold thy Realms comprise
Learned Ignorant, and Wife,
All alike with hot Devotion,

Swallowing thy embitter'd Potion.

Fearless

Fearless I take my self-commiffion'd Stand, To wield thy ruthlefs Sword with unrelenting Hand.

V.

Hear then, O hear my fond Requeft,
Whether in poor Verona's hapless State,
Thou mourn'ft thy Scaliger's neglected Fate,
With Anguifh-laden Breaft.

Or with Rapture lov'ft to view
Sourly fmiling each Review;
Quickly hafte to my Embraces,
Come, O come, in all thy Graces,

Where tuneful Oxford hails thy juft Domain,
Where at thy Shrine attend her delegated Train.

VI.

How fhall I paint thy heavenly Charms!
In what high Praise my ardent Suit addrefs!
Or how the glowing Flame fhall I exprefs
Which now my Bofom warms;

How defcribe the mazy Road,
Leading to thy bleft Abode!

Where thou fit'ft in State prefiding,

Us ignoble Rhimers guiding

To where the Banks of Lethe's filent Wave,

Before our paffive Steps disclose an early Grave.

VII.

Yet fhall my feeble Lays prefume,
Wrapt in ideal Extacies, to trace
The winning Features of thy lovely Face,
And its primeval Bloom.

Thou, a Silver-flipper'd Nymph,*
Lightly tread'ft the dimply Lymph,
With dank Sedge thy Treffes wreathing,
Modulated Measures breathing;

A Coral Crown thy Bright Brow Binds, I ween, And down devolves thy Sweeping Stole of Gloffy Green.

VIII.

Oft, in nocturnal Serenade,

Anxious I wake my Lyre's difcordant Strings,
Till the refponfive Echo loudly rings
With thee, immortal Maid!

Ah! perchance my Hopes are vain

Canft thou then with harfh Difdain,

*Alluding to the following Lines in Warton's TRIUMPH OF ISIS:

And from the Wave arofe its guardian Queen,
Known by her fweeping Stole of gloffy Green;
While in the coral Crown that bound her Brow,
Was wove the Delphic Laurel's verdant Bough.
As the smooth Surface of the dimply Flood,
The Silver-flipper'd Isis lightly trod.

Spurn