Each tender care, each honest art,
Shall chase all future want from thee,
When thy sweet lips consent impart

To climb these steepy hills with me.

Far from the city's vain parade,

No scornful brow shall there be seen, No chill impertinence invade,

Nor envy base, nor sullen spleen. The shadowy rocks which circle round, From storms shall guard our sylvan cell; And there shall ev'ry joy be found

That loves in peaceful vales to dwell.

When late the tardy sun shall 'pear,
And faintly gild yon little spire;
When nights are long, and frosts severe,

And our clean hearth is bright with fire; Sweet tales to read, sweet songs to sing!

O they shall drown the wind and rain, E'en till the soften'd season bring

Merry spring-time back again.

Ne'er doubt when wheaten ears shall rise,
And full their yellow harvest glow;
Then prove with me the sprightly joys
That Love and Industry bestow.

There jocund we can banish Strife;
Her cloud no passing day will see,
Since all the leisure hours of life

Shall still be spent in pleasing thee.

T. DIBDIN.

THE BIRD.-DUETT.

-DALE, LONDON.

Sung by Madame Storace and Mr Braham.

AH! could I hope my fair to see!

Haste, then, and hope to find her.
No hope-alas! she's flown from me!
Indeed!-then never mind her.
The bird that sings in yonder cage,
To me sings notes of sorrow,
And adds new transports to my rage!
You'll change your note to-morrow.

BRAHAM.

ANON.

THE FAREWELL.

-PRESTON, LONDON.

Sung at the Public Concerts.

SLOWLY, across the distant glade,
Many a weary step I measure;
That we may live to meet again,

Is the dear hope I fondly treasure.

But dearer far the rising sigh

ANON.

That Love drew from thee when we parted; A blessing thou couldst not deny

To one who left thee broken-hearted.

And when those lovely eyes betray'd
Such deep regret, such artless sorrow,
Thy sweet regret at once convey'd

The only charm Despair could borrow.

Yet could not I my tears command;
And, fearful, lest I had offended,
Silent I press'd thy trembling hand,
In pity to my grief extended.

If ever thou shouldst softly sigh,

And count the hours we have been parted,
Let Mem❜ry, then, the form supply
Of one who left thee broken-hearted.
And when across the distant plain,
From far, my weary steps I measure,
To live, and meet thee once again,
Will realize the hope I treasure.

COLEMAN.

ALL IS HUSH'D!-DUETT.

CORRI, LONDON.

Sung by Mrs Crouch and Miss De Camp.

PAISIELLO.

ALL is hush'd! no footstep falls!
And silence reigns within these walls!
The place invites-the door is near;
The time is apt—the key is here!
Say, shall we? Yes.-Say, shall we? No.
What is it makes us tremble so?

Mischief is not our intent;

Then wherefore fear we should repent?
Say, shall we? Yes-the door is near.
Say, shall we? Yes-the key is here.

2NON.

AH! DO NOT SAY, ETC.

-DALE, LONDON.

Sung by Mrs Bland.

AH! do not say you'll leave me, love,
The rude alarms of war to prove;
My dearest, do not leave me.
Then shun the dangers of the field;
Sweet are the joys true love can yield.
Ah! do not say you'll leave me.

No more the dove, in murmurs sweet,
Will coo around our fav'rite seat;

When thou art gone, the breeze will sigh,
The flowers will hang their heads and die.
Ah! do not say you'll leave me.

O tell me who your Ann shall shield,
While you the cannon's thunder wield;
Like sweets around, she'll weep and sigh,
Will droop, will fade, alas! will die.
Ah! do not say you'll leave me.

STEWART.

WING'D ON LEAVES, ETC.

A SERENADE.

HOOKE

-NOT YET PUBLISHED.-S IN

MURRAY.

Sung at the Newcastle Concerts.

WING'D on leaves of new-blown roscs,

Cupid, waft Alonzo's sigh,

Press the lip where Joy reposes,
Light the star-beam of that eye,
Smooth her locks with laughing fingers,
Fan thy pinions o'er her breast:
Urchin !—how the fond-one lingers,
Archly nods, and looks so blest!

Bud of beauty, Brunette fair!
Smile thy own Alonzo nigh,
Wave thy locks of raven hair,
Sigh me back a softer sigh:
Wake thee, love-in highest noon
Rides the dancing orb of night;
Wake thee, love-the glitt'ring moon
Silvers soft thy lattic'd height.

GOOD DEEDS ARE NEVER, ETC.

ANONYMOUS,DALE, LONDON.

Sung by Mr Townsend.

A LITTLE boy, a Savoyard,

With cold and hunger almost dying, Among the rocks and mountains lost,

ATTWOOD.

For parents, house, and home, was crying!
A stranger, from the distant road,

Who heard him weep, and saw him wander,
No longer suffer'd him to saunter!
Good deeds are never ill bestow'd.

He gave the little boy his hand,

And dry'd his tears, and hush'd his sorrow;

Y