GLEE for Five Voices.

Dr. CALLCOTT.-Prize, 1792. FATHER of heroes! high dweller of eddying winds, where the dark-red thunder marks the troubled clouds; open thou thy stormy halls; let the bards of old be near. We sit at the rock, but there is no voice; no light but the meteor of fire. O! from the rock on the hill, from the top of the windy steep! O! speak, ye ghosts of the dead! O! whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall we find the departed? No feeble voice is on the gale; no answer half-drown'd in the storm! Father of heroes! The people bend before thee; thou turnest the battle in the field of the brave! thy terrors pour the blasts of death! Thy tempests are before thy face! But thy dwelling is calm, above the clouds; the fields of thy rest are pleasant.

Ossian.

FROM THE ODE TO LIBERTY.
GLEE for Four Voices.

R. SPOFFORTH.-Prize, 1810.

FILL high the grape's exulting stream,
Pour oceans with unbounded soul;
Fill high, 'till laughing o'er the brim,
The sparkling treasure loads the bowl.

Senec. Hippolyt. Act II. Sc. 2.

GLEE for Four Voices.

C. EVANS.-Prize, 1812.

FILL all the glasses, fill them high,

Drink and defy all pow'r but Love; Wine gives the slave his liberty,

But Love makes a slave of thundering Jove.

Then drink, then drink away,

Make a night of the day, 'Tis nectar, 'tis liquor divine; The pleasures of life,

Free from anguish and strife,

Are owing to Love, and good wine.

Shakspeare's Henry the Fourth.

GLEE for Five Voices.

S. WEBBE.-Prize, 1778.

GREAT Bacchus, O aid us to sing thy great glory,

Thou chief of the gods we assemble before thee:
Wine's first projector;

Mankind's protector;

Hail patron of social delights! we adore thee!
All nature rejoic'd when thy birth was declar'd,
Behold here thy altar! and vot'ries prepar'd;
Crown with thy blessing

All who confessing,

No pow'r on earth can with thine be compar❜d.

S. Webbe.

REGNIER'S EPITAPH.

GLEE for Four Voices.

Dr. COOKE.

GAILY I liv'd, as ease and nature taught,

And spent my little life without a thought;
And am amaz'd that Death, the tyrant grim,
Should think of me, who never thought of him.
Translated from the Italian.

GLEE for Four Voices.

Dr. CALLCOTT.-Prize, 1789.

Go, idle boy, I quit thy bow'r,

Thy couch of many a thorn and flow'r,
I wish thee well, for pleasures past,
And bless the hour I'm free at last.
Yet still, methinks, the alter'd day
Scatters around a mournful ray;
And chilling ev'ry. zephyr blows,
And ev'ry stream untuneful flows;
Haste, haste thee back then, idle boy,
And with thine anguish bring thy joy:
O rend my heart with ev'ry pain,
But let me, let me—love again.

Merry.

GLEE for Five Voices.

R. SPOFFORTH.

Good night, good rest;-Ah! neither be my share :
She bade good night, that kept my rest away;
And daft me to a cabbin hang'd with care,
To descant on the doubts of my decay.

Farewell, (quoth she,) and come again to-morrowW;
Farewell I could not, for I supt with sorrow.

Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,
In scorn, or friendship, nill I construe whether;
It may be she joy'd to jest at my exile ;

It may be again to make me wander thither.
Sorrow chang'd to solace, and solace mixt with sorrow;
For why? she sigh'd, and bade me come to-morrow.

Were I with her, the night would post too soon,
But now are minutes added to the hours:
To spite me now, each minute seems an hour,

Yet not for me, shine sun—to succour flowers.
Pack night, peep day, good day of night now borrow,
Short night, to-night, and length thyself to-morrow.
Shakspeare's Poems.

H

GLEE for Four Voices.

GREAT Apollo, strike the lyre,
Fill the raptur'd soul with fire!
Let the festive song go round,
Let this night with joy be crown'd.
Hark! what numbers, soft and clear,
Steal upon the ravish'd ear!

Sure, no mortal sweeps the strings;

Listen!-'tis Apollo sings!

GLEE for Five Voices.

S. WEBBE.

H. Read,

Dr. COOKE.

GALES of ev'ning, while she slumbers,

Fan my fair to soft repose;

Now my lyre, in softest numbers,

Dare my secret wish disclose.

Should she wake, the song disdaining,
Frowns would all thy art destroy;
Thou must cease thy fond complaining,

I must lose my fleeting joy.

Colier.