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GLEE for Four Voices.

S. WebBE. To wipe the tear from sorrow's eye, And stop the unavailing sigh ; Tho' all a stranger can bestow, 'Tis something sure to melt at woe! Kindly to feel what others feel, And blush the frailty to reveal ; Untold, by sympathy to find, The struggles of a virtuous mind. To few, alas ! this skill is given, For 'tis the fav'rite gift of heav'n.

GLEE for Three Voices.

WM. JACKSON. Thou, to whose eyes I bend; at whose command, Tho' low my voice, tho' artless be my hand : I take the sprightly reed, and sing or play, Careless of all the cens'ring world may say. 0, fairest of thy sex, be thou my muse, Deign on my work thine influence to diffuse; So shall my notes to future times proclaim, Unbounded love and ever-during flame.

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GLEE for Three Voices.
Thou, who alone dost all my thoughts infuse,
And art at once my mistress and my muse;
Inspir'd from thee flows every sacred line,
Thine is the poetry, the poetry thine ;
Thy service shall my only bus'ness be,
And all my life employ'd in pleasing thee.

Dr. Percy.

ROUND for Three Voices. 'Twas you, Sir, 'twas you, Sir, I tell you nothing new, Sir, 'Twas you that kiss'd the pretty girl, "Twas you, Sir, you.

'Tis true, Sir, 'tis true, Sir,
You look so very blue, Sir,
I'm sure you kiss'd the pretty girl,
'Tis true, Sir, true.

Oh, Sir ! oh, Sir !
How can you wrong me so, Sir !
I did not kiss the pretty girl,
But I know who.

GLEE for Four Voices.

R. SPOF FORTH.
Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer, tell,
To thy unknown sequester'd cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor,
And on whose top an hawthorn blows;
Amid whose thickly-woven boughs,
Some nightingale still builds her nest,
Each ev’ning warbling thce to rest.

GLEE for Four Voices.

S. WEBBE. To the festive board let's hie, Briskly there the bumpers fly; There the jolly souls resort, There without controul we'll sport. A truce to care, let others grieve, While thus we spend the cheerful eve, With singing, dancing, merry boys, And close our feasts with Venus' joys.

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GLEE for Four Voices.

J. DANBY.--Prize, 1785. The nightingale who tunes her warbling notes so sweet, 'Midst flow'rs ne'er presumes to fix her mournful seat ; Melodiously she sings, while hawthorns pierce her breast, Her voice sweet echo rings, and nature lulls to rest.

GLEE for Four Voices.

J. BATTISHILL. Tue glories of our birth and state,

Are shadows not substantial things; There is no armour against our fate; Death lays his icy hands on kings :

Scepter and crown

Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield, They tame but one another still;

Early or late

They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murm'ring breath,
When the pale captive creeps to death.

The laurel withers on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds,
Upon death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds;

All beads must come

To the cold tomb :
Only the actions of the just,
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.

James Shirly, died 1766. These fine moral stanzas were originally intended for a solemn funeral song in the Contention of Ajax and Ulysses,' it is said to have been a favourite song with King Charles the Second.

See Percy, I. 270. WRITTEN UNDER AN Hour GLASS IN A GrottO. GLEE for Three Voices.

R. COOKE, Tas bubbling stream not uninstructive flows,

Nor idly loiters to its destin'd main;
Each flow'r it feeds that on its margin grows,

And bids those blush, whose days are spent in vain.

Not void of moral, tho' unheeded glides

Time's current stealing on with silent haste ; For, lo! each falling sand his folly chides,

Who lets one precious moment run to waste.

GLEE for Four Voices.

WM. HORSLEY, M.B. Tell me on what holy ground, May domestic peace be found ? Halcyon daughter of the skies! Far on fearful wings she flies;

From the pomp of scepter'd state,
From the rebel's noisy hate.
In the cottage vale she dwells,
List'ning to the sabbath bells;

While still around her steps are seen,
Spotless honour's meeker mien.
And, mindful of the past, employ
Mem'ry, bosom-spring of joy.

Y

Coleridge.

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