I have a silent sorrow here,

A grief I'll ne'er impart ;

It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear,
But it consumes my heart.

This cherish'd woe, this lov'd despair,

My lot for ever be;

So, my soul's lord, the pangs I bear

Be never known by thee.

And when pale characters of death

Shall mark this alter'd cheek;

When my poor wasted trembling breath
My life's last hope would speak;

I shall not raise my eyes to heav'n,
Nor mercy ask for me;

My soul despairs to be forgiv'n,
Unpardon'd, love, by thee.

GLEE. Masters TIDMAN and CARTER, and

Mr. LIDDELL.

When Sappho tun'd the raptur'd strain
The list'ning wretch forgot his pain;
With art divine the lyre she strung,
Like thee she play'd, like thee she sung.
For when she struck the quiv'ring wire
The eager breast was all on fire;

But when she tun'd the vocal lay

The captive soul was charm'd away.

Danby,

Celebrated CONCERTANTE.

SONG. Master TIDMAN.

Pleyel.

Handel.

But thou didst not leave his soul in hell; neither didst

thou suffer thy Holy One to see corruption.

CONCERTO, 10.h, Corelli.

Geminiani.

SIMPHONY.

ACT II.

SONG. Miss HAINES.

Haydn.

Rauzzini.

Silent I tread this lonely wood,
Silent I shed the piteous tear,
No hope to cheer my drooping soul,
Bereft of him I hold moft dear.
Still do I seek these dreary shades,
A love-lorn maid, the village scorn,
Since Henry won my plighted faith,
Then left me here to sigh forlorn.

Yon mossy bank oftimes recalls

The image of the blooming youth;
'Twas there he stole my easy heart,
With vows of constancy and truth.
Faint from her lips her accents flew,
And faintly beam'd her eyes so bright;
She sunk upon the mossy bank-

She sunk to everlasting light.

CONCERTO.

Riccioti.

GLEE. Masters TIDMAN and CARTER, and

Mr. LIDDELL.

Yes, Fortune, I have sought thee long,
Invok'd thee oft in prose and song,

Through half Old England woo'd thee;
Through seas of danger, Indian lands,
Through Afric's howling, burning sands,
But, ah! in vain pursu'd thee.

Now, Fortune, thou would'st fain be kind,
And now I'll tell thee, ma'am, my mind,
I care not straws about thee:

For Cynthia's hand alone I toil'd,

Unbrib'd by wealth, the nymph has smil'd,
Ma'am, bliss is our's without thee.

Webbe.

FINALE.

Kozeluch.

The obsequies denote him brave,
Hark! the volley o'er his grave.
The awful knell sounds low and lorn,
Yet cease, ye kindred brave, to mourn.
The plaintive fife, and mournful drum,
The man may summon to his silent home;
The soldier lives his deeds to trace,
Behold the seraph, Glory, place

An ever-living laurel round his sacred tomb.