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And customs of her own, till fabbath rites
Have dwindled into unrespected forms,
And knees and hassocks are well-nigh divorced.

God made the country, and man made the town, What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts, That can alone make sweet the bitter draught, That life holds out to all, should most abound And least be threatened in the fields and groves? Possess ye therefore, ye who, borne about In chariots and fedans, koow no fatigue But that of idleness, and taste no scenes But such as art contrives, poffefs ye still Your element; there only can ye shine; There only minds like yours can do no harm. Our groves were planted to console at noon The pentive wanderer in their shades. At eve The moon-beam, sliding softly in between The sleeping leaves, is all the light they will, 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 your's,
Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan,
Has made, what enemies could never have done, -
Our arch of empire, stedfast but for you,
A mutilated structure, soon to fall.




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