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Poem by James Maxwell

1. Twas Thought of Late but Few Years Past...

Twas thought of late but few years past,
The Poets all had sung their last,
	Especially on British ground:
Or that the Muses were asleep,
And would perpetual silence keep.
	Nor once more chirp another found.

Yet two or three here still remaind,
Who yet the sacred fire retaind,
	But they so few were little heard:
At last there sprang a spurious band,
Who made a noise through all the land,
	To whom great numbers paid regard.

But when it was examind well,
The foremost was inspird by hell,
	To captivate the human race:
So when th infernal cheat was found,
The wise disdaind the hellish sound,
	And doomd them to their native place.

Yet though by all wise men despisd,
Still profligates such jargon prizd,
	And cheerfully the same embracd:
But sober men were so ashamd
That they had been subscribers namd,
	All poetry was thus disgracd.

But this is no uncommon case,
That innocence should get disgrace,
	Through others faults though not her own:
When counters in the land are rife,
They cause so much debate and strife,
	The current coin is hardly known.

Thus real poets suffer shame,
And very often bear the blame,
	When poetasters base appear:
These sowre the serious sober mind,
And make the wisest of mankind,
	Of Poets and their works beware. 

James Maxwell

James Maxwell's other poems:
  1. 6. On L-----------------s Poems. Another A-----sh-----e Bard
  2. 10. Urania. To the Human Muse
  3. 7. To L-----------s Subscribers
  4. 8. An Epitaph on L Poems. By another Hand
  5. 9. Postscript; by Way of Application

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