To MISS . BY MISS ELIZA CARTER

The midnight moon serenely smiles O'er nature's soft repose, No lowring cloud obscures the skies, Nor ruffling tempest blows.

Now every passion sinks to rest, The throbbing heart lies still, And varying schemes of life no more Distract the labouring will.

In silence hush'd, to reason's voice Attends each mental power; Come, dear Emilia, and enjoy Reflection's favourite hour.

Come: while this peaceful scene invites, Let's search this ample round; Where shall the lovely fleeting form Of Happiness be found?

Does it amidst the frolic mirth Of gay assemblies dwell? Or hide beneath the solemn gloom That shades the hermit's cell?

How oft the laughing brow of joy A sick'ning heart conceals, And through the cloister's deep recess Invading sorrow steals.

In vain through beauty, fortune, wit, The fugitive we trace! It dwells not in the faithless smile That brightens Clodio's face.

Perhaps the joy to these deny'd, The heart in friendship finds: Ah! dear delusion! gay conceit Of visionary minds!

Howe'er our varying notions rove, All yet agree, in one, To place its being in some state At distance from our own.

O blind to each indulgent aim Of power, supremely wise, Who fancy happiness in aught The hand of Heav'n denies.

Vain is alike the joy we seek, And vain what we possess, Unless harmonious reason tunes The passions into peace.

To temper'd wishes, just desires, Is happiness confin'd, And deaf to folly's call attends The music of the mind.