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Supplement to the Musical Library: March to December, 1834 (Classic Reprint)
Ingen förhandsgranskning - 2018
accompaniment admirably appeared applause beautiful Beethoven better brought called character chorus church composer composition concert considered delight effect English equal excellent executed expression feeling Festival former four gave genius give given grand HANDEL hands Haydn hear heard interest Italian Italy kind King known late latter less London Lord Madame manager manner March master means meeting melody merit minor Miss movement Mozart musician never notes notice occasion opera oratorio orchestra original overture performed persons Phillips pieces played pleasing possesses present principal printed produced proved published received Recit remarkable Royal season seems selection Signor singer singing Society song soprano sound style success sung sweet symphony talent taste theatre thing third took violin vocal voice whole written young
Sida 14 - Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft To give my Love good-morrow ! Wings from the wind to please her mind Notes from the lark I'll borrow ; Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing, To give my Love good-morrow ; To give my Love good-morrow Notes from them both I'll borrow.
Sida 3 - I'm drest all in my best To walk abroad with Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. My master carries me to church. And often am I blamed Because I leave him in the lurch As soon as text is named; I leave the church in sermon-time And slink away to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.
Sida 26 - Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude ; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh, ho ! sing, heigh, ho ! unto the green holly : Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly Then, heigh, ho, the holly ! This life is most jolly.
Sida 21 - HENCE, all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly ! There's nought in this life sweet, If man were wise to see't, But only melancholy ; Oh ! sweetest melancholy. Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, A sigh that piercing mortifies, A look that's fastened to the ground, A tongue chained up, without a sound...
Sida 49 - Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired ; Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee ; How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair.
Sida 38 - He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest. The font reappearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow ! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing, When blighting was nearest.
Sida 26 - Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise: Arise, arise.
Sida 49 - Go, lovely Rose ! Tell her, that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.
Sida 26 - The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day; But glory remains when their lights fade away! Begin, ye tormentors! your threats are in vain, For the son of Alknomook shall never complain. Remember the arrows he shot from his bow; Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low: Why so slow? — do you wait till I shrink from the pain? No — the son of Alknomook will never complain.