HENRIETTA, LADY LUXBOROUGH,

..........

died 1756,

Was half-sister to the famous Lord Bolingbroke. In Dodsley's Collection, some pieces of poetry ascribed to a Lady of Quality, proceeded from her pen; one of them is given here. A volume of her letters to Shenstone was printed in 1775.

The Bulfinch in Town.

HARK to the blackbird's pleasing note,
Sweet usher of the vocal throng!
Nature directs his warbling throat,
And all that hear, admire the song.

Yon bulfinch with unvaried tone,

Of cadence harsh, and accent shrill,

Has brighter plumage to atone
For want of harmony and skill.

Yet discontent with nature's boon,
Like man, to mimick art he flies;

On opera-pinions hoping soon

Unrival'd he shall mount the skies.

And while to please some courtly fair,
He one dull tune with labour learns,
A well-gilt cage remote from air

And faded plumes, is all he earns!

Go, hapless captive! still repeat

The sounds which nature never taught; Go, listening fair! and call them sweet, Because you know them dearly bought.

Unenvied both! go hear and sing

Your studied music o'er and o'er; Whilst I attend th' inviting spring,

In fields where birds unfetter'd soar.

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!