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.

'Tw

WAS you, Sir, 'twas you, Sir,

I tell you nothing new, Sir,

'Twas you that kiss'd the pretty girl,

"Twas you, Sir, you.

GLEE for Four Voices.

R. SPOFFORTH.

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 thee 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.

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.

THE 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

J. BATTISHILL.

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 heads 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.

THIS 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.

QUARTET

FROM SAMPSON.

THEN round about the starry throne

Of him who ever rules alone,

Your heav'nly-guided soul shall climb :

Of all this earthly grossness quit,

Mr. HANDEL.

With glory crown'd, for ever sit,
And triumph over Death, and thee, O Time!

ANOTHER OF ASTROPHELL.

MADRIGAL for Three Voices.

BATESON, 1604.

THE nightingale so soone as Aprill bringeth

Vnto her rested sense a perfect waking:

While late bare earth, proud of new cloathing springeth, Sings out her woes, a thorne her song-booke making. And mournefully bewailing,

Her throate in tunes expresseth,

What griefe her breast oppresseth,

For Tereus' force, on her chast will prevailing.

* Oh, Philomela, faire, oh, take some gladness,
That here is iuster cause of plaintfull sadnes.
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth:
Thy throne without, my thorne my hart invadeth.

England's Helicon, P. 194.—Sir Phil, Sidney.

*The whole of the above has not been set, but the Editor, having the verse complete, thought it right to print it.