Ah! iff we parte, ne moe to meete agayne, Wythyn thie wydow'dd berte wyll everr brenn The frostie vygyls of a cloysterr'd nun, Insteade of faerie[10] love's effulgentt sonne! Ne moe with myne wyll carolynge[11] beatt hie, Gyve throbb for throbb, and sygh returne forr sygh, Butt bee bie nyghtt congeall'dd bie lethall feares, Bie daie consum'dd awaie inn unavaylynge teares! MATYLDA. Alas! howe soone is happlesse love ondonne, Wytherr'd and deadde almostt beforre begunn: Lych Marchh's openyng flowrs thatt sygh'dd forr Maie, Which Apryll's teares inn angerr wash'dd awaie. Onr tenes alych, alych our domes shall bee, Where'err thou wander'stt I wyll followe thee; And whann our sprytes throughe feere are purg'dd fromm claie, Inn pees theie shalle repose upponn the mylkie waie. ALFREDE. The raynbowe hewes that payntt the laughyng mees,[12] The gule-stayn'dd[13] folyage of the okenn trees, The starrie spangells of the mornynge dewe, The laverock's matyn songes and skies of blewe, Maie weel the thotes of gentill shepherdds joie. Whose hertes ne hopelesse loves or cares alloie; Butt whatt cann seeme to teneful loverrs fayre. Whose hopes butt darkenns moe the mydnyghtt of despayre? MATYLDA. To thotelesse swayns itt maie bee blyss indeede, To marke the yeare through alle hys ages speede, Butt everie seasone seemes alych to mee, Eternall wynterr whann awaie from thee! Fromm howrr to howrr I oftt beweepe ourr love, Wyth all the happie sorowe of the dove, And fancie, as itts sylentt waterrs flowe, Mie bosome's swetestt joies mustt thos bee mientt[14] wyth woe. Palerr thann cloudes thatt stayne the azure nyghtt, Or starrs thatt shoote beneathe theyr feeble lyghtt, And eke as crymson as the mornyng's rode,[15] The lornlie[16] payre inn dumbe dystracyon stoode Whann onn the banke Matylda sonke and dyed, And Alfrede plong'dd hys daggerr inn hys syde: Hys purpell soule came roshynge fromm the wounde, And o'err the lyfeless claie deathe's ensygns stream'dd arownde. _Literary Gazette._ [7] Tender. [8] Woes. [9] Express. [10] Fiery. [11] Dancing. [12] Meadows. [13] Blood-coloured. [14] Mingled. [15] Complexion. [16] Forlorn. * * * * * SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS FOX HUNTING. "Well, do you know, that after all you have said, Mr. North, I cannot understand the passion and the pleasure of fox-hunting. It seems to me both cruel and dangerous."