Thy kindly beams alone impart
To find the youth who stole my heart;
And guide me, from thy filver throne,
To steal his heart, or find my Ovn.

S

O DE TO A THRUSH.

BY. MISS PENNINGTON 2.

WEET warbler! to whofe artless fong
Soft Mufic's native powers belong,

Here fix thy haunt; and o'er these plains
Still pour thy wild untutor'd strains,
Still hail the morn with sprightly lay,
And sweetly hymn the parting day :
But fprightlier ftill, and fweeter pour
Thy fong o'er Flavia's favorite bower;
There foftly breathe the vary'd found,
And chant thy loves or woes around.

So may'st thou live fecurely bleft,

And no rude forms disturb thy neft;

a Daughter of the Rev. Mr. Pennington, rector of Huntingdon, This young lady died in the year 1759, aged 25. She wrote a Parody on Philips's Splendid Shilling, printed in Dilly's "Repofitory," vol. I. and is celebrated by Mr. Duncombe in the Feminead.

No

No bird-lime twig, or gin annoy,
Or cruel gun thy brood destroy;
No want of shelter may'st thou know,
`Which Ripton's lofty fhades bestow;
No dearth of winter berries fear,
But haws and hips blush half the year.

A

H me! that reftlefs blifs fo foon fhould flie!

Still as I think my yielding maid to gain, And flatt'ring hope fays all my joys are nigh, Officious jealoufy renews my pain.

II.

When cold fufpenfe and torturing despair,

When paufing doubt, and anxious fear's no more,

Some idle falfhood haunts my lift'ning ear,

And wakes my heart to all it felt before.

III.

One treads the mazes of the puzzled dance
With easy step, and unaffected air,

Falfe rapture feigns, or rolls a meaning glance,

To catch the open, easy-hearted fair.

IV. Another

IV.

Another boasts a more fubftantial claim,
For him fair Plenty fills her golden horn,
A thousand flocks fupport his haughty flame,
A thousand acres crown'd with waving corn.
V.

But I nor tread the mazes of the dance

With easy step, and unaffected air,

Nor rapture feign, nor roll a meaning glance,
To catch the open, easy-hearted fair.

VI.

I boast not Fortune's more fubftantial claim,
For me nor Plenty fills her golden horn,
Nor wealthy flocks fupport my humble flame,
Nor smiling acres crown'd with waving corn.
VII.

Say, will thy gen'rous heart for these reject
A tender paffion, and a foul fincere?
For though with me you've little to expect,
Believe me, Sylvia, you have less to fear.
VIII.

Come, let us tread the flow'ry paths of peace,
'Till Fate fhall feal th' irrevocable doom;

Then foar together to yon realms of blifs,

And leave our mingled ashes in the tomb.
IX.

Perhaps fome tender sympathetic breast,

Who knows with Sorrow's elegance to moan, May fearch the charnel where our relics rest, And grave our mem'ry on the faithful stone,

VOL. V.

X.

"Tread foft, ye lovers, o'er this hallow'd ground:
"Here lies fond Damon by his Sylvia's fide;
"Their fouls in life by mutual love were bound,
"Nor death the lasting union could divide."

A POEM TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS, LATE MARQUIS OF WHARTON, LORD PRIVY SEAL.

AIN are these pomps, thy funeral rites to grace,

VAIN

And blazen forth thy long Patrician race;
These banners mark'd with boasted feats of old,
And streamers waving with diftinguish'd gold:
Proud hieroglyphics! where are darkly fhown
Thy brave forefathers merits, not thy own.
Herald, forbear! these painted honours give
To names that only in thy paint can live.
Thy colours fade near this illuftrious clay,
And all thy gaudy gildings die away.

See, a heaven displeas'd, thy fond attempt upbraids,
And claims the province thy bold hand invades ;
Untimely darkness, gathering round the skies,
Blackens the morn, to grace his obfequies;
The fick❜ning fun fhines dim, and in the fight
Of gazing crowds refigns his waning light;
Mark how he labours with relapfe of night!

}

a The marquis was interred at Winchindon on the 22d of April 1715. The total eclipse of the sun, happening whilst his remains were on the road, stopped the proceffion.

How

How his diminish'd face a crefcent feems,
Like Cynthia newly filver'd with his beams.
But as in full eclipfe his light expires,
Back to its fource our gelid blood retires;
Chill'd with furprize, our trembling joints unbrace,
And pale confufion fits on every face;

The bleating flocks, no more the fhepherd's care,
Stray from thofe folds to which they would repair;
Home to his young the raven wings his way,
And leaves untasted his yet bleeding prey;
While tow'ring larks their rival notes prolong,
They drop benighted in their morning fong;
Darkness and horror reign o'er earth and skies,
And nature for awhile with WHARTON dies.
O! speak, refulgent parent of the day!
With beamy eye who doft the globe furvey;
Thou radiant fource of wit's diviner fire!
Thou trueft judge of what thou doft infpire!
Say, haft thou feen in any age or clime,
Since thy bright race began to measure time,
So great a genius rife? in every part
So form'd by nature, finifh'd fo by art?
Such manly fenfe, with fo much fire of mind?
Judgment fo strong, to wit fo lively join'd?
No prepoffeffion fway'd his equal foul,
Steady to truth the pointed as her pole:
Convinc'd of varying in the least degrees,
Her pliant index fhe reclaim'd with ease.