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ENCINCTURED with a twine of leaves,

That leafy twine his only dress !
A lovely boy was plucking fruits,
By moonlight, in a wilderness.
The moon was bright, the air was free,
And fruits and flowers together grew
On many a shrub and many a tree :
And all put on a gentle hue,
Hanging in the shadowy air
Like a picture rich and rare.
It was a climate where, they say,
The night is more beloved than day.
But who that beauteous boy beguiled,
That beauteous boy to linger here?
Alone, by night, a little child,
In place so silent and so wild-
Has he no friend, no loving mother near ?


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,

The Virgin clad in robes of woe.

Mourn the young Mother, snatch'd away

From Light and Life's ascending Sun !
Mourn for the babe, Death's voiceless prey,

Earn'd by long pangs and lost ere won.

Mourn the bright Rose that bloom'd and went

Ere half disclosed its vernal hue !
Mourn the green bud, so rudely rent,

It brake the stem on which it grew.

Mourn for the universal woe

With solemn dirge and faltering tongue :
For England's Lady is laid low,

So dear, so lovely, and so young!

The blossoms on her Tree of Life

Shone with the dews of recent bliss :
Transplanted in that deadly strife,

She plucks its fruits in Paradise.

Mourn for the widow'd Lord in chief,

Who wails and will not solaced be !
Mourn for the childless Father's grief,

The wedded Lover's agony !

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

To seek and bless the firstling bud Of his own Rose, and found the thorn,

Its point bedew'd with tears of blood.

O press again that murmuring string!

Again bewail that princely Sire ! A destined Queen, a future King,

He mourns on one funereal pyre.

Mourn for Britannia's hopes decay'd,

Her daughters wail their dear defence; Their fair example, prostrate laid,

Chaste Love and fervid Innocence.

While Grief in


shall seek repose, We will take up a Mourning yearly : To wail the blow that crush'd the Rose,

So dearly prized and loved so dearly.

Long as the fount of Song o'erflows

Will I the yearly dirge renew : Mourn for the firstling of the Rose

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

To sad Jeshurun's Sons attend !
Amid the Lightnings of thy Wrath

The showers of Consolation send !

Jehovah frowns ! the Islands bow !

And Prince and People kiss the Rod !
Their dread chastising Judge wert thou,

Be thou their Comforter, O God !





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“One word with two meanings is the traitor's shield and shaft : and a slit tongue be his blazon !"

Caucasian Proverb. “THE Sun is not yet risen,

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

To wed you on a day,
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

To Alice, child of old Du Clos, As spotless fair, as airy light

As that moon-shiny doe,
The gold star on its brow, her sire's ancestral crest !
For ere the lark had left his nest,

She in the garden bower below
Sate loosely wrapt in maiden white,
Her face half drooping from the sight,

A snow-drop on a tuft of snow !

O close your eyes, and strive to see
The studious maid, with book on knee,-

Ah! earliest-opend flower ;
While yet with keen unblunted light
The morning star shone opposite

The lattice of her bower-
Alone of all the starry host,

As if in prideful scorn
Of flight and fear he stay'd behind,

To brave th' advancing morn.

O! Alice could read passing well,

And she was conning then Dan Ovid's mazy tale of loves,

And gods, and beasts, and men.

The vassal's speech, his taunting vein,
It thrill'd like venom thro' her brain ;

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