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 remain’d,
Who yet the sacred fire retain’d,
	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 examin’d well,
The foremost was inspir’d by hell,
	To captivate the human race:
So when th’ infernal cheat was found,
The wise disdain’d the hellish sound,
	And doom’d them to their native place.

Yet though by all wise men despis’d,
Still profligates such jargon priz’d,
	And cheerfully the same embrac’d:
But sober men were so asham’d
That they had been subscribers nam’d,
	All poetry was thus disgrac’d.

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.