And said such gentle things and kind,
I could not tell them by to-morrow!
He brought him to his lost abode,-

His mother dear, whose heart was breaking;
And left his purse, with friendly greeting!
Good deeds are never ill bestow'd.

This little boy became a man,

And cruel war again was raging; The stranger to the battle went,

And fell where fire and sword were raging!
The Savoyard before him strode,

And, by his bold and brave behaviour,
With noble valour sav'd his saviour!

Good deeds are never ill bestow'd.

WHERE IS ELLEN?

SKEFFINGTON.KELLY, LONDON.

Sung by Mrs Mountain.

WHERE is Ellen?-rural beauty;
Ah! in pity, tell me where:
Well she claims a heart of duty,
Ardent love, and tender care.

J. ADDISON.

Tho' time may steal the rose of youth,
The mind may still be vernal,
Increase of years but strengthen truth,
And virtue is eternal.

Where is Ellen?-rural beauty;

Point the path-dire& me there:

Reason sanctions fondest duty,
Ardent love, and tender care.

Some graces time will steal away,
Some graces nobly cherish :
Beauty, like flowers, will soon decay;
But sense can never perish.

Where, then, is the rural beauty?
Ellen pure is Ellen fair:

Mine is still a heart of duty,

Ardent love, and tender care.

CHERRY.

THE GLAD TRUMPET.

-CORRI, LONDON.

Sung by Mr Braham.

HE was fam'd for deeds of arms;
She, a maid of envy'd charms,
Now to him her love imparts:
One pure flame pervades both hearts.
Honour calls him to the field:

CORRI

Love to conquest now must yield.
Sweet maid! he cries, again I'll come to thee,
When the glad trumpet sounds a victory!
Battle now with fury glows;
Hostile blood in torrents flows:
His duty tells him to depart;
She press'd her hero to her heart.
And now the trumpet sounds to arms!
Amid the clash of rude alarms,

He with love and conquest burns:
Both subdue his mind by turns.
Death the soldier now enthrals:
With his wounds the hero falls!
She, disdaining war's alarms,

Rush'd, and caught him in her arms!

O Death! he cries, thou'rt welcome now to me! For, hark! the trumpet sounds a victory!

MUSIC FIRST WITH VOICE, ETC.

CHERRY.

-CORRI, LONDON.

Sung by Mr Braham.

MUSIC first with voice rebounding,
Thro' the vaulted skies resounding,
Sweetly breathing magic notes
Thro' the feather'd warbler's throats-

They soar and sing,

And sail thro' air on downy wing!

Thus, thro' the skies,
With choir of feather'd minstrelsy,
Soft Music flies,

Till Science fix'd its limit❜ry:

And now the godlike maid can range
But thro' the region of harmonic change.

Tho' the rules of art her flight confine,
She still has room to rove:

Her pow'r o'er the soul can thought refine;
She tunes all hearts to love.

CORRE

Then, blest Cecilia, hail!—all hail to thee,
Whose magic lyre

First struck the chord that gave to melody
Harmonic fire!

ANON.

TOGETHER LET US RANGE, ETC.

GOULDING, LONDON,

Sung by Mrs Dickons and Mr Incledon.

TOGETHER let us range the fields,

Impearled with the morning dew;
Or view the fruits the vineyard yields,
Or the apples' clust'ring bough.
There the close-embowered shades,
Impervious to the noontide ray,
By tinkling rills, on rosy beds,
We'll love the sultry hours away.

ANON.

THE BROW OF THE HILL.

PRESTON, LONDON.

Sung by Mr Bowden.

ARNE

SHIELD

TO the chase, to the chase, on the brow of the hill,
Let the hounds meet the sweet-breathing morn;
While, full to the welkin, their notes, clear and shrill,
Join the sound of the heart-cheering horn.

What music celestial, when urging the race,
Sweet Echo repeats to the chase;

Our pleasure transports us!-how gay flies the hour! Sweet Health and quick spirits attend;

Not sweeter when evening convenes to the bower, And we meet the lov'd smile of a friend.

To the chase, &c.

See the stag just before us-he starts at the cry!
He stops his strength fails!--Speak, my friends,

must he die?

His innocent aspect while standing at bay,

His expression of anguish and pain,

All plead for compassion; and your looks seem to say,

Let him live! let him bound o'er his forest again! To the chase, &c.

ANON.

THE NEGRO MOTHER.

-BRODERIP, LONDON.

Sung at the Public Concerts.

THE orange flow'rs, on Cuba's strand,
Were waving in the evening gale,
When, slowly floating on the sand,

Was heard the sad Hindara's wail.

Reclining by the foaming flood,

She hush'd the infant on her knee;

-ROSS.

Sweet babe-her breast was streak'd with blood,
And all to ward the scourge from thee.

Green are the groves on Benin's shore,
And fair the fields beyond the sea;