After a long Pilgrimage at Bath

A RE you return'd at last—apostate maid!
To calm retirement, and the rural shade?
Welcome, sweet Sylvia , to your silent seat,
Your sylvan solitude, and green retreat;
Welcome to quiet days, untroubled nights,
To guiltless joys, and innocent delights;
Welcome, fair fugitive, to peaceful Holt ,
Almost a desart grown since your revolt,
When you withdrew, politer guests retir'd;
The place grew dull, the fountains uninspir'd:
Your wit, your company, and verse prevail'd,
And oft' recover'd when the fountains fail'd.

 T WAS such a charm, as antient poets told,
Inspir'd the fam'd Castalian springs of old:
No healing power those sacred streams possest,
But some poetic God the region blest.
So if seraphic Sylvia deigns to sing,
Each list'ning stream is a Castalian spring;
Each grove divine, and every hill around,
Blooms with Parnassian laurels at the found.

 L ONG the forsaken fields your absence mourn'd,
And meadows wept, in dews, 'till you return'd:
But now, again, the feather'd warblers sing,
And in the midst of winter make a spring.
The tuneful sisters, when you fled, withdrew;
For where you go, those Syrens will pursue:
While some in equipage, and showy pride,
In gilded vehicles triumphant glide;
Compar'd to yours, their shining pomp is vain,
For all the muses mingle in your train.
When poets travel, rural nymphs attend,
Sylphs dance around, and Goddesses descend.

 W HAT cou'd you do in Bath's tumultuous air?
Can you Impertinence and folly bear?
What cou'd you do amongst the vain and proud,
But live in solitude amidst the crowd:
When to the rooms you rov'd with pensive mien,
Still anxious Clio hover'd round unseen;
On the Parade oft' whisper'd in your ear,
Fly Sylvia , fly,—Contentment is not here:
Your genius calls you like some beckoning ghost;
Fly Sylvia , fly—from this enchanted coast.
Deluded Maid, what tempts your longer stay?
The Country calls—come Sylvia , come away.