John Bradford

1706 - 1785

Farewell To The Wye.

Farewell to thee, enchanting Wye !
The day is drawing near
When I must bid thy banks good bye,
For banks not half so dear :
A troubled life's most happy hours
'Mid thy sweet scenes I've past ;
But^ like the best of earth's frail dowers,
Their fate was not to last.
And now Pm doom'd to leave again
The streamlet and the dell ;
To bid adieu to hill and plain,
In trade's base marts to dwell ;
But all the gold, and all the gain,
From Calpe to the pole,
Their treach'rous lures might spread, in vain.
To wean from thee my soul.
Whene'er I roam the Avon's side,
Or on its banks recline,
I oft shall wish its turbid tide
Could be exchang'd for thine.
Thy banks are free from traffic's stains ;
Thy waters clear and bright ;
In wand'ring o'er thy flow'r-clad plains
There's rapture and delight ;
And sweet it is, at eventide,
By Belmont's wooded shores.
To see the light skiffs gaily glide.
And hear the dash of oars.
The letter'd bard may strike his lyre
In teeming Tempe's praise ;
But, blest with thee, I've no desire
On Tempe's vale to gaze.
That classic land is doubtless fair ;
Has charms that glad the eye ;
But none that I will e'er compare
With thine, bright, bounding Wye.
Then fare-thee-well, enchanting stream !
Where'er my footsteps roam,
My noonday thought, my midnight dream.
Will be of thee and home.
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