OXFORD TUNE.

Saviour of sinners, from thy death
Our spirits draw their heav'nly breath;
Thy dying groans with life abound,
And healing flows from ev'ry wound!

Thy sorrows are a fruitful tree,
Whereon rich blessings grow for me:
Thy spotless life a golden mine,
Where all my brightest treasures shine.

Out of thy fulness we receive
The grace and faith by which we live;
Thy broken body is our food,
The wine we drink is thy rich blood.

Thy righteousness is all our dress,

Rich, Precious Thing! you'll not be mine, it seems,
Because you say, no Wit, but Wealth contemns;
Wherefore, since your Wealth is your Merit, you
Will it on him who loves it most, bestow;
Whilst you the Rich, the Proud, and Covetous,
For your Gallant, True Lover, or your Spouse,
For loving Money more, but less shou'd chuse;
My Rival, the Rich Miser, then refuse,
Since thee he'd ne'r, because a Rich Thing, use;
But you great Fortunes, like your Money too,
Shun Lavish Wits, who wou'd make use of you,
And to the Miser wou'd most freely go;

If Public Spirits, which the Public still
Will serve, altho' against the Public's Will,
Beget, for Public Men, the Public Praise,
Why shou'd they be, all Public Dames Disgrace?
Whilst Men gain (as more Public) much more Fame,
Yet Public Women get more Public Shame,
As more t'oblige all Mankind, is their Aim;
Who shou'd obtain more Kindness, and more Praise,
As Suff'ring, for the Public, more Disgrace;
And why shou'd Men, but for destroying Man
From Mankind, but more Fame, and Honour gain?
Yet you, for your increasing Human-Kind,

BLEST infant of eternity!
Before the day-star learned to move,
In pomp of fire, along his grand career,
Glancing the beamy shafts of light
From his rich quiver to the farthest sphere,
Thou wert alone, oh Love!
Nestling beneath the wings of ancient Night,
Whose horrors seemed to smile in shadowing thee.
No form of beauty soothed thine eye,
As through the dim expanse it wandered wide;
No kindred spirit caught thy sigh,
As o'er the watery waste it lingering died.

Unfelt the pulse, unknown the power,

'T was in the summer time so sweet,
When hearts and flowers are both in season,
That — who, of all the world, should meet,
One early dawn, but Love and Reason!

Love told his dream of yesternight,
While Reason talked about the weather;
The morn, in sooth, was fair and bright,
And on they took their way together.

The boy in many a gambol flew,
While Reason, like a Juno, stalked,
And from her portly figure threw

When on my beloved I gaze,
So dazzling his beauties appear,
His charms so transcendantly blaze,
The sight is too melting to bear!

When from my own vileness I turn
To Jesus, expos'd on the tree,
With shame and with wonder I burn,
To think what he suffer'd for me.

My sins, oh how black they appear,
When in that dear bosom they meet!
Those sins were the nails and the spear
That wounded his hands and his feet.

'Twas justice that wreath'd for his head
The thorns that encircled it round.
Thy temples, Emmanuel, bled,

Love , like a bird born in a cage,
In bondage gaily sings,
Nor sighs to rove, but prizes more
His fetters than his wings.
Then do not strive those chains to break,
Tho' lighter than a feather —
They're twined so closely round the heart,
That both must break together.

Never tell me of loving by measure and weight,
As one's merits may lack or abound;
As if love could be carried to market, like skate,
And cheapened for so much a pound.

If it can, — if yours can, — let them have it who care;
You and I, friend, shall never agree;
Pack, and to market; be off with your ware;
It's a great deal too common for me.

Do ye linger and laugh? I'm sincere, I declare,
But belike over-hasty in thought;
If it suits ye to close with my terms as they are,
Well and good — but I won't bate a jot.

MURLIN'STUNE .

Hosannah to the God of love,
Who condescended from above
To bring salvation down!
We bless his name, who stoop'd so low
To save us from eternal woe,
And raise us to a crown.

When we, in our first parents, fell
From Eden to the gates of hell,
And lay like captives there,
Then Jesus cast a pitying eye
On wretches doom'd for sin to lie
For ever in despair.

His bowels, where compassion rolls,
Then yearning o'er our guilty souls,
Did f,irst for sinners move.

Beautiful maid! I court thy smiles,
I woo that breast which ne'er beguiles.
The warmest love is soonest past,
But ours with heaven and earth shall last;
Hands fastest knit will often sever,
But ours once joined, are joined for ever!

Do I not love thee? read this brow —
Lines of thy own are traced there now;
This cheek has caught thy pallid hue,
This lip thy bitter smiling too,
And this sunk eye, this wasted frame,
The mistress whom I serve proclaim.

Alas! the bride I should have wed,
Young Hope, my early love, is dead;