James Maxwell

8. An Epitaph on L— Poems. By another Hand

Here lie the Poems of L–,
Which neither pleas’d the saint nor rake.

Which neither made us laugh nor weep;
But strange – they lull’d us fast asleep!

Dulness appear’d in every line,
Who then shall call the Bard divine?

Who e’er shall deck his brow with bays,
Or tell posterity his praise?

In dark oblivion’s blackest cave,
His stupid rhimes have found a grave:

Nor e’er shall from their cavern rise,
To snatch Fame’s bright and envied prize.

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

FINIS.