On plighted vows, on transports dwell;
Such, Memory, alone impart :

From thy record these fondly tell,
And kindly cheat the silly heart.

ANON.

THE SOLDIER TIR'D, ETC.

-DALE, ETC. LONDON.

Sung by Mrs Billington.

THE soldier, tir'd of war's alarms,
Forswears the clang of hostile arms,

And scorns the spear and shield;
But, if the brazen trumpet sound,
He burns with conquest to be crown'd,
And dares again the field.

ARNE.

HOPE TOLD A FLATT'RING TALE.

DR WALCOTT.

GOULDING, LOND.

Sung by Madame Mara.

HOPE told a flatt'ring tale,
That Joy would soon return;
Ah! nought my sighs avail,

For Love is doom'd to mourn.

Ah! where's the flatt'rer gone?
From me for ever flown;
Ah! nought my sighs avail,

For Love is doom'd to mourn.

PAISIELLO,

The happy dream of Love is o'er;
Life, alas! can charm no more.

T. HOARE.

ARE YE FAIR, ETC.

DALE, LONDON.

Sung by Madame Storace.

ARE ye fair as opening roses?
Tender maidens, ah, beware!
When its bloom the heart discloses,
Love will find a dwelling there.
Prudence, then, in vain opposes;
Youth is never wise as fair.

PAISIELLO.

ANON.

THE MANSION OF PEACE.

PRESTON, LONDON. AS AN INTE WEBBE.

Sung by Mr Harrison.

RECITATIVE.

SOFT Zephyr, on thy balmy wing,
Thy gentlest breezes hither bring;
Her slumbers guard, some hand divine;
Ah! watch her with a care like mine.

AIR.

A rose from her bosom had stray'd;
I'll seek to replace it with art:
But, no; 'twill her slumbers invade:

I'll wear it, fond youth, next my heart.

Alas, silly rose, hadst thou known
'Twas Daphne that gave thee thy place,
Thou ne'er from thy station hadst flown;
Her bosom's the Mansion of Peace.

WHILE I hang on your bosom, distracted to lose you,
High swells my sad heart, and fast my tears flow;
Yet think not of coldness they fall to accuse you:
Did I ever upbraid you? Oh! no, my love, no.
I own it would please me, at home would you tarry,
Nor e'er feel a wish from Maria to go;

But if it gives pleasure to you, my dear Harry,

Shall I blame your departure? Ah! no, my love, no. Now do not, dear Hall, while abroad you are straying, That heart, which is mine, on another bestow:

Nay, banish that frown, such displeasure betraying: Do you think I'd suspect you? Oh! no, my love, no. I believe you too kind for one moment to grieve me, Or plant in a heart which adores you such woe; Yet should you dishonour my truth, and deceive me, Should I e'er cease to love you? Ah! no, my love, no.

BRAHAM.

THE ORIGIN OF GUNPOWDER.

T. DIBDIN.

-CORRI, LONDON.

Sung by Mr Incledon.

WHEN Vulcan forg'd the bolts of Jove
In Ætna's roaring glow,
Neptune petition'd he might prove
Their use and power below;
But finding, in the boundless deep,
Such thunders would not idly sleep,
He with them arm'd Britannia's hand,
To guard from foes her native land.

Long may she hold the awful right;
And when, thro' circling flame,
She darts her vengeance in the fight,
May Justice guide her aim:
When, if assail'd in future wars,

Her soldiers brave, and gallant tars,
Shall launch her fires from every hand,
On every foe to Britain's land.