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o arms! your ensigns straight display, Now set the battle in array ; The oracle for war declares, Success depends upon our hearts and spears. Britons! strike home, revenge your country's wrongs ! Fight, and record yourselves in Druid's songs.

Beaumont and Fletcher.-1647.

GLEE for Three Voices.

Ç. Jenner, A. M. Thou’rt gone away from me, Nor friends nor I could make thee stay ;

Thou'st cheated them and me. Until this day I ne'er could think,

That aught could alter thee; Thou’rt still the mistress of my heart,

Think what thou wilt of me. Whate'er he said, or might pretend,

That stole that heart of thine ; I'm sure true love was not his end,

Not such a love as mine.

GLEE for Five Voices.

S. WEBBE. Thy beauteous eyes shine with celestial fire, And rosy odours from thy neck aspire ; Brighter than gold tby 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.


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.

GLEE for Three Voices.

W. HORSLEY, M.B. The 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 lightnings of summer pass harmlessly by ;
For ever thy buds keep their mellowing glow,
Thy branches still wave to the southernly sigh.


The Mystic Bower.

GLEE for Three Voices.

Dr. Boyce.

'Tis 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.

What? tho' they say secrets, by wine, are reveald,

Let spleen and ill-nature declare what they can; We bid them defiance, be nothing conceald,

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.

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