ON GOLD.

GLEE for Four Voices.

WM. DIXON.

HAD heaps of treasur'd gold the power,

To stay the life-resigning hour;
My heart from pleasure I'd withhold,
And only live to hoard up gold;
That royal bribes from day to day,
Might charm the tyrant death away.

But since no treasur'd heaps have pow'r,
To stay the fate compelling hour,
Insensate, why should I complain,
And render life's short blessings vain ?

Be't mine to drain the rosy bowl,
Whilst social mirth exalts the soul;
Or on soft beds entranc'd, to prove

The sweeter joys of sweetest love.

From Anacreon, by Addison, Ode XXIII.

GLEE for Four Voices.

R. SPOFFORTH.

HAIL! smiling morn! that tips the hills with gold,
Whose rosy fingers ope the gates of day;
Who the gay face of nature doth unfold,
At whose bright presence darkness flies away.

GLEE for Four Voices.

F. GIARDINI.

HERE lies my wife, poor Phillis! let her lie ;
She's found repose at last, and so have I.

WRITTEN DURING A THUNDER STORM.
GLEE* for Five Voices.

W. HAWES.
How dread the crash! how vivid is the glare!
Now, Atheist, tremble! and deny thy God!
Now, face his heralds! and his vengeance dare!
Or bow submissive to his awful nod.

Again it rolls! and Albion's centre quakes!
Again the lightnings flash from pole to pole!
The domes resound! the solid fabric shakes!
And Nature seems to war without controul.

Emblem faint emblem! of that coming day,
When the loud clarion shall awake the ball;
The earth and skies in wild confusion lay,
And ruin! mighty ruin! cover all !

Cambridge Newspaper.

* This Glee was a Candidate for the Gold Medal given at the Noblemens' Catch Club in 1812, and stood second at the final decision.

HENCE away, ye Syrens leave me,
And unclasp your wanton arms;
Sugar'd words shall not deceive me,
Tho' you prove a thousand charms.
Fie, fie, forbear!

No common snare

Can ever my affections chain:

Thy painted baits,

And poor deceits,

Are all bestow'd on me in vain.

Can he prize the tainted posies,
Which on ev'ry breast are worn ;
That may pluck the spotless roses
From their never-touched thorn?
I can go rest,

On her sweet breast,

That is the pride of Cynthia's train :

Then stay thy tongue,

Thy mermaid song,

Is all bestow'd on me in vain?

George Withers.

GLEE for Four Voices.

WM. HORSLEY, M.B.

HAIL, golden lyre! whose heav'n invented string,

To Phoebus and the black hair'd nine belongs; Who in sweet chorus round their tuneful king,

Mix, with thy sounding chords, their sacred songs. The dance, gay queen of pleasure, thee attends, Thy jocund strains her list'ning feet inspire; And each melodious tongue its voice suspends, Till thou, great leader of the heav'nly choir, With wanton preluding giv'st the sign,. Swell the full concert then with harmony divine.

GLEE for Three Voices.

T. ATTWOOD.

HARK! the curfew's solemn sound,

Silent darkness spreads around:

Heavy it beats on the lover's heart,

Who leaves with a sigh his tale half told;
The poring monk and his book must part,
And fearful the miser locks his gold.
Now whilst labour sleeps and charmed sorrow,
O'er the dewy green,

By the glow-worm's light,

Unheard, unseen,

Dance the elves of night;

Yet where the midnight pranks have been,

The circl'd turf will betray to-morrow.

J. Tobin, Esq.

GLEE for Four Voices

S. WEBBE.

HAIL! happy meeting! vintage now is done,
The grapes are purpl'd by th' autumnal sun;
Who having with his beams all nature blest,
Retires to capricorn, and sinks to rest.
Now comes relentless winter, that deforms
With frost, the forest; and the sea, with storms.
We shun the rage, and thus in social mirth,
We'll pass our time till spring renews its birth:
Hail! happy meeting! crown'd with ev'ry blessing!
Thrice happy we, such plenty here possessing!
Each, in his look, his heart's content expressing !
Thus, while together, such a treat before us,

Since it hath pleas'd great Bacchus to restore us,
Cantet nunc, Io! Amicorum chorus.

S. Webbe.

GLEE for Three Voices.

How should we mortals spend our hours,

In war, in love, and drinking?

None but a fool consumes his pow'rs

In peace, in care, and thinking.

Time, would you let him wisely pass,

Is lively, brisk, and jolly:

Dip but his wing in the sparkling glass,
And he'll drown dull melancholy.

SACCHINI.

Sir Henry Bate Dudley: