Could Grignion’s art protract oblivion’s hour,
Or bid the epic rage of Blackmore live?
In this lone nook, with learned dust bestrew’d,
Where frequent cobwebs kindly form a shade,
Some wondrous legend, fill’d with death and blood,
Some monkish history, perhaps, is laid!
With store of barbarous Latin at command
Though arm’d with puns, and jingling quibble’s mights
Yet could not these soothe Time’s remorseless hand
Or save their labours from eternal night.