GLEE for Five Voices.

S. WEBBE.
WHEN Winds breathe soft along the silent deep,
The waters curl, the peaceful billows sleep :
A stronger gale the troubled wave awakes;
The surface roughens, and the ocean shakes.
More dreadful still, when furious storms arise,
The mounting billows bellow to the skies ;
On liquid rocks the tott'ring vessel's toss'd,
Unnumber'd surges lash the foaming coast :
The raging waves, excited by the blast,

Whiten with wrath, and split the sturdy mast.
When, in an instant, he who rules the floods,
Earth, air, and fire, Jehovah! God of gods !
In pleasing accents speaks his sovereign will,
And bids the waters, and the winds, be still!
Hush'd are the winds, the waters cease to roar ;
Safe are the seas, and silent as the shore.
Now say, what joy elates the sailor's breast,
With prosp'rous gales so unexpected blest!
What ease, what transport, in each face is seen!
The heav'ns look bright, the air and sea serene :
For ev'ry plaint we hear a joyful strain

To Him, whose pow'r unbounded rules the main.

ODE for Three Voices.

Dr. ARNE.

Song by Mr. HOOK..

WHEN Britain on her sea-girt shore,

Her ancient Druids erst addrest;
'What aid, (she cry'd) shall I implore?
'What best defence, by numbers prest?
Tho' hostile nations round thee rise,
(The mystic Oracles reply'd)

'And view thine isle with envious eyes,
"Their threats defy, their rage deride;
'Nor fear invasion from those adverse Gauls,
'Britain's best bulwarks are her wooden walls.

'Thine oaks descending to the main,

With floating forts shall stem the tides, 'Asserting Britain's liquid reign,

Where e'er thy thund'ring navy rides!

"Nor less to peaceful arts inclin'd,

"Where commerce opens all her stores, "In social bands shall league mankind, And join the sea-divided shores :

Spread then thy sails where naval glory calls, 'Britain's best bulwarks are her wooden walls.'

Hail! happy isle! what tho' thy vales
No vine-empurpled tribute yield,
Nor fann'd with odour-breathing gales,
Nor crops spontaneous glad the field;

Yet Liberty rewards the toil
Of industry, to labour prone,

Who jocund ploughs the grateful soil,
the harvest she has sown:

And reaps

While other realms tyrannic sway enthrals,

Britain's best bulwarks are-her wooden walls.

Mr. H. Green.

GLEE for Four Voices.

Harmonized by WM. JACKSON. Air by Dr. ARNE, in the Tempest.

WHERE the bee sucks, there lark I,

In a cowslip's bell 1 lie;

There I couch when owls do cry,

On a batt's back do I fly,

After sun-set merrily;

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

All we fairies that do run,
By the triple Hecate's beam,
From the presence of the sun,
Follow darkness as a dream.
Over hill, over dale,

Thoro' bush, thoro' briar,

Over park, over pale,

Thoro' flood, thoro' fire.

Merrily, merrily, shall we live now,

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

Shakspeare.

GLEE for Three Voices.

WHAT Anacreon lov'd we drink,

Press it closely to the lip; Misers, can ye sleep or think, While such nectar here we sip?

BAILDON

Our gay honest Horace would take off his flask,
While Ovid in love play'd the fool:

› Come, broach the Falernian or massie old cask,
And follow gay Horace's rule.

Let the whining lover sigh,

All his tears are shed in vain ;

But a bumper can supply,

Ev'ry tear that love can drain.

Love was ne'er a treasure,

Drinking is a pleasure,

Then fill your gen'rous goblets high!

Let your glasses gingle,

Thus our joys we mingle,

Drink, sons of Bacchus, till ye die.

Fawkes.

GLEE for Four Voices.

S. WEBBE.

WHERE, hapless Ilion! are thy heav'n-built walls, ́
Thy high embattled tow'rs, thy spacious halls?
Where are thy temples, fill'd with forms divine?
Where is thy Pallas? Where her awful shrine ?
The mighty Hector where? Thy fav'rite boast;
And all thy valiant sons, a splendid host?
Thy arts, thy arms, thy riches, and thy state,
Thy pride, thy pomp, thy all that made thee great?
These prostrate now in dust and ruin lie,

But thy transcendant fame can never die ;
Fate boasts no pow'r to sink thy glories past,

They fill the world, and with the world shall last.

C. Butler.

GLEE for Four Voices.

Dr. ARNE.-Prize, 1765.

WHICH is the properest day to drink,

Saturday, Sunday, Monday?

Each is the properest day I think,

Why should I name but one day?

Tell me but your's, I'll mention my day,
Let us but fix on some day.

Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday,
Saturday, Sunday, Monday.

Dr. Arne.