We reach'd the grove-I look'd around,
My fairy was no longer near;

But of her voice I knew the sound,
As thus she whisper'd in my ear:

"The nymph, fair Health, you came to find, Within these precincts loves to dwell;

Her breath now fills the balmy wind;
This path will lead you to her cell.”

I bended to the primrose low,

And ask'd if Health might there reside? "She left me," said the flow'r, "but now, For yonder vi'let's purple pride."

I question'd next the vi'let queen,
Where buxom Health was to be found?
She told me that "she late was seen
With cowslip's toying on the ground."

Then thrice I kiss'd the cowslips pale,
And in their dew-drops bath'd my face;
I told them all my tender tale,

And begg'd their aid coy Health to trace.

"From us," exclaim'd a lowly flow'r,

"The nymph has many a day been gone; But now she rests within the bow'r

Where yonder hawthorn blooms alone."

Quick to that bow'r I ran, I flew,
And yet no nymph I there could find;
But fresh the breeze of morning blew,
And Spring was gay, and Flora kind.

If I return'd sedate, and slow,

What, if the nymph I could not see? The blush that pass'd along my brow Was proof of her divinity.

And still her votary to prove,

And still her dulcet smiles to share, I'll tread the fields, I'll haunt the grove, With untir'd steps and fondest care.

O sprite belov'd! vouchsafe to give
A boon, a precious boon to me;
Within thy influence let me live,
And sometimes too thy beauties see.

So shall the muse, in nobler verse,
And strength renew'd, exulting sing;
Thy praise, thy charms, thy power rehearse,
And sweep, with bolder hand, the string.
Beloe's Miscellanies.

MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS.

LOCK'D are the golden gates of day, 'Tis thine, O Night! the key to keep; Morpheus, in velvet's soft array,

Has hush'd the busy world to sleep.

Now Fancy waves her magic rod,
And, roving, spreads her airy wings;
Now flatter'd kings assume the God,
And dreaming vassals ape their kings.

The lover, free from hopes and fears,
In ecstasy imparts the kiss;
The nymph undone, forgets her tears,
Exulting in imagin'd bliss.

Deception all ! 'tis thus through life,
Our passions grasp at each extreme;
Pleasure and pain's eternal strife
Convince us life is all a dream.

Yet hail! kind sleep, in poppies drest, Health's sweetest sister, queen of peace!

In thee distinction sinks to rest;

In thee our daily troubles cease.

Thy willing captives bless thy chain,
Yet slaves at thy command are free;
Poets and princes own thy reign,
And stand on equal terms in thee!

But like the sons of gay delight,
When most thy visits sorrow needs,
Too oft thou tak'st a distant flight,
And death's eternal sleep succeeds.

Eternal? No!-his transient reign,
Like thine, shall revolution see;
The solemn trump shall break his chain,
And set whole realms of captives free.

And thee, O Night! the muse shall hail, Whose awful gloom the soul invades ; Suns in their burning spheres may fail, But thou shalt triumph in thy shades.

Ere order sprang in depths profound,
Thy universal sway was known;
Chaos, thy ruder brother, own'd
The ancient sceptre thine alone.

O see! obsequious to thy nod,
Dividing clouds obedient fly;
See the drawn curtains of a God

Unfold the glories of the sky.

View the amazing canopy;

The wide, the wonderful expanse ! Let each bold infidel agree

That God is there, unknown to chance.

There the enchanting volume read,
Where world's illumin'd fill the page;
Where radiant orbs their maker plead,
And in his great behests engage.

There learned dunces of the schools,
Behold the language stars can teach ;
Then, bending, own Jehovah's rules,
Beyond the power of human reach.

Christopher Jones, a Journeyman Weaver.

ODE TO MORNING.

THE sprightly messenger of day,
To heav'n ascending, tunes the lay
That wakes the tuneful morn :
Cheer'd with th' inspiring notes, I rise,
And hail the Pow'r, whose glad supplies
Th' enliven'd plains adorn.