 notAmos Performing Editions 1 Lansdown Place East, Bath BA1 5ET, UK +44 (0) 1225 316145 Performing editions of pre‑classical music with full preview/playback and instant download |
Henry Harington
(1727 - 1816)
Go gentle soul
(S.A.T.B.Kbd.)
Full score (PDF), €0.00 for unlimited copies Download this item(1727 - 1816)
Go gentle soul
(S.A.T.B.Kbd.)
Printable cover page (PDF), €0.00 for unlimited copies Download this item
Please click here to report any problem obtaining a PDF
This work, Harington : Go gentle soul : scoreid 123957, as published by notAmos Performing Editions, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. All relevant attributions should state its URL as https://www.notamos.co.uk/detail.php?scoreid=123957. Permissions beyond the scope of this licence may be available at https://www.notamos.co.uk/index.php?sheet=about.
| Enquire about this score |
| About Henry Harington |
| Full Catalogue |
| About us | Help, privacy, cookies |
| About Henry Harington |
| Full Catalogue |
| About us | Help, privacy, cookies |
From "Songs, duets and other compositions by Doctor Harington of Bath never before published. Studio fallente laborem. London. Printed for the author & sold by the engraver E. Riley No. 8 Strand J. Preston No. 97 Strand Lintern's Bath &c" 1800.
Lyrics: Luis de Camoes
Go, gentle soul supremely blessed, from scenes of struggling virtue go;
From thy immortal seat of rest behold our world of ling'ring woe.
If in thy blessed repose above fond fancy still the past surveys,
Blame not, sweet saint, my ardent love, wont in these longing eyes to blaze.
From virtue's source, if sorrows rise, while tears my hopeless fate declare,
O justify these endless sighs, and now prefer one gracious prayer.
Bow to that awful hand divine, which made thy span of life so brief;
His mercy sue to shorten mine, and grant a suffering soul relief.
Go, gentle soul supremely blessed, from scenes of struggling virtue go;
From thy immortal seat of rest behold our world of ling'ring woe.
If in thy blessed repose above fond fancy still the past surveys,
Blame not, sweet saint, my ardent love, wont in these longing eyes to blaze.
From virtue's source, if sorrows rise, while tears my hopeless fate declare,
O justify these endless sighs, and now prefer one gracious prayer.
Bow to that awful hand divine, which made thy span of life so brief;
His mercy sue to shorten mine, and grant a suffering soul relief.