T Contrives, Possess Ye Still Your Element; There Only Ye Can Shine, There Only Minds Like Yours Can Do No Harm. Our Groves Were Planted To Console At Noon The Pensive Wanderer In Their Shades. At Eve The Moonbeam, Sliding Softly In Between The Sleeping Leaves, Is All The Light They Wish, Birds Warbling All The Music. We Can Spare The Splendour Of Your Lamps, They But Eclipse Our Softer Satellite. Your Songs Confound Our More Harmonious Notes. The Thrush Departs Scared, And The Offended Nightingale Is Mute. There Is A Public Mischief In Your Mirth; It Plagues Your Country. Folly Such As Yours, Graced With A Sword, And Worthier Of A Fan, Has Made, Which Enemies Could Ne'er Have Done, Our Arch Of Empire, Steadfast But For You, A Mutilated Structure, Soon To Fall.