GLEE for Five Voices.

S. WEBBE. THY beauteous eyes shine with celestial fire, And rosy odours from thy neck aspire; Brighter than gold thy burnish'd tresses flow, Thy balmy lips like brightest crimson glow. Meandring veins sublime, thy bosom's white, And ev'ry grace adorns thee for delight! The charms each goddess boasts in thine we see, And vanquish'd Venus yields the prize to thee!

GLEE for Three Voices.

J. S. SMITH.

DUET.

WILLIAM JACKSON.

TAKE, oh! take those lips away,
Which so sweetly were forsworn ;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn.
But my kisses bring again,
Seals of love, but seal'd in vain.

Hide, oh! hide those hills of snow,
Which thy frozen bosom bears;
On whose tops the pinks that grow,
Are of those that April bears.
But first set my poor heart free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee.

Shakspeare.

GLEE for Three Voices.

Dr. NARES.-Prize, 1770. To all lovers of harmony take off your glasses, Nor 'midst all your jollity quarrel like asses; Let our mirth swell aloud in its natural key, And no flat divisions rob us of our glee;

Let no thoughts of discord find place in our breasts, Nor out-of-time crotchets break in on our rests.

THE

GLEE for Three Voices.

W. HORSLEY, M.B.

cup of the tulip with wine is replete,

Come, my boy, let thy office begin;

How many more scruples and doubts must we meet, To be longer severe were a sin.

Break instantly forth from this pride and this scorn,
For what more would old Time wish to know;
It saw, mighty Cæsar! thy proud tresses shorn,
And thy diadem, Cyrus, laid low.

The gale of the morn bids the morn of our youth,
Yet once more richly glow on the mind;

Boy, bring us that balm, which our senses will sooth,
That balm which to sorrow is kind.

Translated from the Persic of Hafez.

GLEE for Four Voices.

WM. HORSLEY, M. B.

THROW the gaudy roses from thee,

Dash the cup to earth;

Little, heedless youth, become thee

Roses, wine, and mirth.

What's the mirth that thus delights thee?

Taste his sweets no more;
He that to the feast invites thee,
Stabs thee when 'tis o'er.

But touch the lyre in gentle measure,

Peace is all our heav'n;

Bliss is an immortal treasure,

Nor to man is given.

In Imitation of Sir J. Suckling, by L. Hunt, Esq.

GLEE for Three Voices.

Dr. CALLCOTT.

THOU pride of the forest whose dark branches spread,
To the sigh of the south-wind their tremulous green,
And the tinge of whose buds is as rich and as red,
As the blushes of maiden eighteen.

O'er thee may the tempest in gentleness blow,

And the light'nings of summer pass harmlessly by; For ever thy buds keep their mellowing glow, Thy branches still wave to the southernly sigh.

Hoppner.

'TIS

THE MYSTIC Bower.

GLEE for Three Voices.

on earth the greatest blessing, When the mirth inspiring bowl, Join'd to music, joys increasing,

Cheers the heart, and tunes the soul.

When with wine our veins are swelling,
Friendship's fires the brighter burn;
Love refreshing, care expelling,

Ev'ry joy succeeds in turn.

Dr. BOYCE.

What? tho' they say secrets, by wine, are reveal'd,
Let spleen and ill-nature declare what they can ;
We bid them defiance, be nothing conceal'd,
And he who drinks most is the honestest man.

THE DESERTED PELICAN.*

MADRIGAL for Five Voices.

MATHEW COOKE.

THE Pelican, whose fond parental breast,
Had bled to feed the infant brood she prest,
Feeble through age, thus loudly spoke her grief:
Farewell vile race! O death, come bring relief!
Those from my vitals fed, my woes ne'er find,
More false than true, now live more harsh than kind.

* In imitation of the Silver Swan, by Or. Gibbons.

GLEE for Five Voices.

To all that breathe the air of heav'n,

T. ATTWOOD.

Some boon of strength has Nature giv'n ;
When the majestic bull was born,
She fenced his brow with wreathed horn,
She arm'd the coursers foot of air,
And wing'd, with speed, the panting hare.
She gave the lion fangs of terror,
And in the ocean's crystal mirror,
Taught th' unnumber'd scaly throng,
To trace the liquid paths along :
While, for the umbrage of the grove,
She plum'd the warbling world of love.
To man she gave the flame refin'd,
The spark of heav'n, a thinking mind;
And had she no surpassing treasure,
For thee, O woman! child of pleasure?
She gave thee beauty, shaft of eyes,
That ev'ry shaft of war outflies:
She gave thee beauty, blush of fire,
That bids the flames of war retire.
Woman, be fair! we must adore thee,
Smile, and a world is weak before thee.

Moore's Anacreon.