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;

Cold blows the north wind, bleak and strong,
Wild beat the waves upon the shore;
The tempest howls, the surges roar,
And from the angry ocean wide,
In flows the restless, white-crowned tide,
O'er the whole night long.

Cold blows the north wind bleak and strong,
The billows in delirious glee,
Roll in from 'cross the foaming sea;
And in their mad and merry race,
They fling the salt spray in my face,
And chant their dreary song.

The wind is fierce, the sea is bold,
But what care I for wind or sea;

III.

Why do we love thee, Fame? thou art not sweet
If sweetness dwell with softness and repose;
Thou art not fair, if beauty be replete
With peace and tenderness, and ease from woes;
Thou art not faithful, for thy power and flame
To fierce extremes the maddening votary urge;
And oft the winds that should his bliss proclaim,
Swell but the chorus of his funeral dirge:
Yet we do love thee — love thee till the blood