FRAGMENT OF A POEM ENTITLED, "THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN." ENCINCTURED with a twine of leaves, That leafy twine his only dress ! A lovely boy was plucking fruits, The moon was bright, the air was free, ISRAEL'S LAMENT.* MOURN, Israel! Sons of Israel, mourn! Give utterance to the inward throe! * Translation of "A Hebrew Dirge, chanted in the Great Synagogue, St. James's Place, Aldgate, on the day of the As wails, of her first love forlorn, Mourn the young Mother, snatch'd away Mourn the bright Rose that bloom'd and went Mourn for the universal woe With solemn dirge and faltering tongue : So dear, so lovely, and so young! The blossoms on her Tree of Life Mourn for the widow'd Lord in chief, Funeral of her Royal Highness the Princess Charlotte, by Hyman Hurwitz, Master of the Hebrew Academy, Highgate, 1817." The Hebrew text with Coleridge's translation appeared at the time in a separate pamphlet form.—ED. Mourn for the Prince, who rose at morn Its point bedew'd with tears of blood. O press again that murmuring string! He mourns on one funereal pyre. Mourn for Britannia's hopes decay'd, Chaste Love and fervid Innocence. While Grief in song shall seek repose, Long as the fount of Song o'erflows That snapt the stem on which it grew. The proud shall pass, forgot; the chill, Damp, trickling Vault their only mourner! Not so the regal Rose, that still Clung to the breast which first had worn her! O thou, who mark'st the Mourner's path The showers of Consolation send ! Jehovah frowns! the Islands bow! 1817. ALICE DU CLOS: OR THE FORKED TONGUE. A BALLAD. "One word with two meanings is the traitor's shield and shaft and a slit tongue be his blazon!" "THE Sun is not yet risen, Caucasian Proverb. But the dawn lies red on the dew: Lord Julian has stolen from the hunters away, Is seeking, Lady, for you. Put on your dress of green, Your buskins and your quiver; Lord Julian is a hasty man, Long waiting brook'd he never. I dare not doubt him, that he means Your lord and master for to be, And you his lady gay. O Lady! throw your book aside ! I would not that my Lord should chide." Thus spake Sir Hugh the vassal knight As spotless fair, as airy light As that moon-shiny doe, The gold star on its brow, her sire's ancestral crest! She in the garden bower below O close your eyes, and strive to see The lattice of her bower- Of flight and fear he stay'd behind, O! Alice could read passing well, The vassal's speech, his taunting vein, |