A Farewel To The Country Poem by Samuel Bowden

By a LADY


How shall the Muse, distress'd in numbers, tell
The pain she feels at this sad word-farewel?
Scarce can she bear the oft' repeated sound,
While, echo like, the accents back rebound;
And still pursue her, like some frighted ghost,
'Till in great London's crouded streets they're lost.
Farewel to all the pleasures of the fields,
Those sweet delights each spangl'd meadow yields.
Farewel ye silver streams, ye bubbling brooks,
Ye reverend lofty trees, and rural rooks.
Farewel to the melodious feather'd throng,
Whose artless notes inspir'd my rustic song.
While warbling sweetness sooth'd my cares to rest,
And peace and harmony fill'd all my breast.
Farewel each shady wood, each fragrant grove,
Each verdant plain, where fleecy flocks still rove.
Farewel the lowly huts, where virtue dwells;
Farewel to merit, hid in lonely cells.
Farewel each charming dear delicious shade,
Where balmy Zephyrs fan the harmless maid.
No more shall I your jovial pastimes join,
Watch my dear flocks, or curious garlands twine.
When free from care in beachen bower I sung,
Nor ever thought the Halcyon moments long:
That sweet retirement, and those blissful joys,
I now exchange for tumults, crouds and noise.


Farewel then, Thyrsis, by the Gods design'd
A blessing to these plains, and all mankind.
Still sweetly sing your soft melodious lays,
And with your sacred art prolong our days.


Farewel Philander! lovely Delia too,
But oh! the muse can scarcely say adieu.
Still to the nuptial band an honour live,
That Hymen, long disgrac'd, new joys may give.


Farewel Palemon! may that pleasing art,
Which undesigning charms our virgin heart,
Still its unsully'd innocence retain,
And may you never breath one sigh in vain.
But when the speaking chords you artful prest,
Or tuneful sung, what nymph could guard her breast?
But oh! may generous passions charm your soul,
And friendship's sacred ties your love control.


To Strephon too I now must bid farewel,
In whom the pleasing graces sweetly dwell:
That sweet vivacity, that sprightly air,
That lovely mien will charm th' admiring fair.


Farewel to Philomela's tuneful strains,
Which bless the fields, and charm the wond'ring swains:
Whose warbling numbers oft' my soul inspir'd,
Rais'd my dull soul, and every passion fir'd.
But tho' deny'd the music of your tongue,
On which the softest eloquence is hung,
Yet deign to bless me with some tuneful thought.
And let me not, tho' absent, be forgot.
Oh! make these scenes immortal with your praise;
Still may they bloom in Philomela's lays.


But how my dear Belinda can I quit?
Blest with good humour, eloquence, and wit.
How bright her soul! her language how refin'd!
How just her thoughts! how uncorrupt her mind!
With her how swift the pleasing moments flew!
Sure such a form can savage souls subdue.
But yet tho' distant, may we ever prove
The noblest friendship, pure angelic love.


And dear Myrtilla with regret I lose,
Who first did smile upon my infant muse.
Else had she still in shades obscure have lain,
And not appear'd on this censorious plain.
But banish'd now from your auspicious smile,
My muse no more shall fleeting hours beguile.
Should she with all her rural, artless trains
Of unsuspecting harmless nymphs and swains,
'Midst beaus and belles, in the gay town appear,
At virtuous innocence, how wou'd they sneer?
How would they listen with a strange amaze,
To hear her pipes and reeds, 'midst balls and plays
While she (unskill'd in those pernicious arts,
By which they triumph o'er unwary hearts)
Must be insulted by corrupted wit,
Or fly their jeers, or what is worse, submit.
Guilty amours must then her lays recite,
And perjur'd love her tuneful thoughts indite.


Ah! can I wish my inoffensive muse
Wou'd thus her virtuous innocence abuse?
Forbid it Heaven, my muse should faithless be;
Oh! rather let her fly to shades and liberty,
And live unnoted on those blissful plains,
Where spotless love in rural sweetness reigns.
There let me visit thy delicious bowers,
And range the fields to gather new-blown flowers;
Watch the gay nymphs in their delightful sports,
Which yield more joy than baneful bliss of courts.
In vain the fates have plac'd me in the town,
Where noise and discord would my numbers drown.
Domestic cares may here some hours employ,
But the dear shades will give a lasting joy.
My tuneful fancy oft' will take her flight,
Where once she us'd to revel with delight:
No theme can here one well-form'd number raise,
For all my soul was form'd for rural lays.


Then Philomela will my songs approve;
While every note Myrtilla's soul will move.
Grant this request, the rest I will resign,
Nor ask one favour of the tuneful nine.