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Poem by James Maxwell


8. An Epitaph on L Poems. By another Hand


Here lie the Poems of L,
Which neither pleasd the saint nor rake.

Which neither made us laugh nor weep;
But strange  they lulld us fast asleep!

Dulness appeard in every line,
Who then shall call the Bard divine?

Who eer shall deck his brow with bays,
Or tell posterity his praise?

In dark oblivions blackest cave,
His stupid rhimes have found a grave:

Nor eer shall from their cavern rise,
To snatch Fames bright and envied prize.

Ye Poets then all warning take,
From the sad fate of poor L,

FINIS.



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. 9. Postscript; by Way of Application
  5. 3. 1st Answer to the Foregoing. By------ HAMILTON


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