ſucceſs it deſerved, and contributed to relieve Mr. Mitchel’s neceſſities, who had honour enough, however, to undeceive the world, and acknowledge his obligations to Mr. Hill, by making mankind acquainted with the real author of The Fatal Extravagant. As this was a favour never to be forgotten, ſo we find Mr. Mitchel taking every proper occaſion to expreſs his gratitude, and celebrate his patron. Amongſt the firſt of his poems, is An Ode, addreſſed to Mr. Hill, which is one of the beſt of his compoſitions. The two laſt ſtanza’s are as follow,
Heedleſs of cuſtom, and the vulgar breath,
I toil for glory in a path untrod,
Or where but few have dared to combat death,
And few unſtaggering carry virtue’s load.
Thy muſe, O Hill, of living names,
My firſt reſpect, and chief attendance claims.
Sublimely ſir’d, thou look’ſt diſdainful down
On trifling ſubjects, and a vile renown.
In ev’ry verſe, in ev’ry thought of thine,
There’s heav’nly rapture and deſign.
Who can thy god-like Gideon view[1],
And not thy muſe purſue,
Or wiſh, at leaſt, ſuch miracles to do?
Sure in thy breaſt the ancient Hebrew fire
Reviv’d, glows hot, and blazes forth,
How ſtrong, how fierce the flames aſpire!
Of thy interior worth,
When burning worlds thou ſett’ſt before our eyes[2],
And draw’ſt tremendous judgment from the ſkies!
O bear me on thy ſeraph wing,
And teach my weak obſequious muſe to ſing.
