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.”

Cruelty!  Is there cruelty in laying the rein on their necks, and delivering them up to the transport of their high condition—­for every throbbing vein is visible—­at the first full burst of that maddening cry, and letting loose to their delight the living thunderbolts?  Danger!  What danger but breaking their own legs, necks, or backs, and those of their riders?  And what right have you to complain of that, lying all your length, a huge hulking fellow snoring and snorting half asleep on a sofa, sufficient to sicken a whole street?  What though it be but a smallish, reddish-brown, sharp-nosed animal, with pricked-up ears, and passionately fond of poultry, that they pursue?  After the first tallyho, Reynard is rarely seen, till he is run in upon—­once perhaps in the whole run, skirting a wood, or crossing a common.  It is an idea that is pursued, on a whirlwind of horses to a storm of canine music,—­worthy, both, of the largest lion that ever leaped among a band of Moors, sleeping at midnight by an extinguished fire on the African sands.  There is, we verily believe it, nothing foxy in the fancy of one man in all that glorious field of three hundred.  Once off and away—­while wood and welkin rings—­and nothing is felt—­nothing is imaged in that hurricane flight, but scorn of all obstructions, dikes, ditches, drains, brooks, palings, canals, rivers, and all the impediments reared in the way of so many rejoicing madmen, by nature, art, and science, in an enclosed, cultivated, civilized, and Christian country.  There they go—­prince and peer, baronet and squire,—­the nobility and gentry of England, the flower of the men of the earth, each on such steed as Pollux never reined, nor Philip’s warlike son—­for could we imagine Bucephalus here, ridden by his own tamer, Alexander would be thrown out during the very first burst, and glad to find his way dismounted to a village alehouse for a pail of meal and water.  Hedges, trees, groves, gardens, orchards, woods, farm-houses,