PENNINGTON,

died 1759,

At the age of twenty-five. Her poem The Copper Farthing, a poor imitation of The Splendid Shilling, has appeared in several collections.

Ode to Morning.

HAIL, roseate Morn! returning light!
To thee the sable queen of night

Reluctant yields her sway;

And, as she quits the dappled skies,
On glories greater glories rise,
To greet the dawning day.

O'er tufted meads gay Flora trips;
Arabia's spices scent her lips,

Her head with rose-buds crown'd;
Mild Zephyr hastes to snatch a kiss,
And, fluttering with the transient bliss,
Wafts fragrance all around.

The dew drops, daughters of the Morn,
With spangles every bush adorn,

And all the broider'd vales;

Their voice to thee the linnets raise,
The lark, soft-trilling in thy praise,
Aurora, rising, hails!

While Nature, now in lively vest
Of glossy green, has gaily drest

Each tributary plain;

While blooming flowers, and blossom'd trees, Soft-waving with the vernal breeze,

Exult beneath thy reign;

Shall I, with drowsy poppies crown'd,
By sleep in silken fetters bound,
The downy god obey?

Ah, no!-thro' yon embowering grove,

Or winding valley, let me rove,

And own thy cheerful sway!

For short-liv'd are thy pleasing powers:
Pass but a few uncertain hours,

And we no more shall trace

Thy dimpled cheek, and brow serene;
Or clouds may gloom the smiling scene,
And frowns deform thy face.

So in life's youthful bloomy prime,
We sport away the fleeting time,

Regardless of our fate;

But, by some unexpected blow,
Our giddy follies we shall know,

And mourn them when too late!

Published Poems, which, as Boswell informs us, were corrected by Dr. Johnson.

TO LUCINDA.

LUCINDA, you in vain dissuade

Two hearts from mutual love,
What amorous youth, or tender maid,
Could e'er their flames remove?

What if the charms in him I see

Only exist in thought;

Yet Cupid, like the Mede's decree,

Is firm and changeth not.

Seek not to know my passion's spring,

The reason to discover;

For reason is an useless thing,

When we've commenc'd the lover.

Should lovers quarrel with their fate,
And ask the reason why

They are condemn'd to dote on that,
Or for this object die?

They must not hope for a reply,

And this is all they know;

They sigh, and weep, and rave, and die,

Because it must be so.

Love is a mighty God you know,
That rules with potent sway;
And when he draws his awful bow,
We mortals must obey.

Since you the fatal strife endur'd,

And yielded to his dart; How can I hope to be secur'd,

And guard a weaker heart?