 | The Finding of The Book and Other Poems |  |
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SHIYR SHYRIYM
TWO INTERPRETERS
I read the Song of Songs—I thought it pure,
The very flame of the full love of God;
And over it there hung the clear obscure
Of Syrian night, and scents were blown abroad
Whose very names breathe on us mystic breath—
Myrrh, and the violet-striped habatseleth.
The very flame of the full love of God;
And over it there hung the clear obscure
Of Syrian night, and scents were blown abroad
Whose very names breathe on us mystic breath—
Myrrh, and the violet-striped habatseleth.
Strange words of beauty hung upon mine ear—
Semadar, that is scent and flower in one
Of the young vine-blooms in the prime of the year;
Senir, Amana, Carmel, Lebanon,
Eloquent of rivers and of mountain trees,
Dim in the Oriental distances.
Semadar, that is scent and flower in one
Of the young vine-blooms in the prime of the year;
Senir, Amana, Carmel, Lebanon,
Eloquent of rivers and of mountain trees,
Dim in the Oriental distances.
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And purple paradise of pomegranate flowers,
Kopher, kinnámon, balsam, wealth of nard,
And things that thickets fill in summer hours,
Blue as a sky white-clouded, golden-starr'd,
Whereby we may surmise not far from thence
Mountains of myrrh and hills of frankincense.
Kopher, kinnámon, balsam, wealth of nard,
And things that thickets fill in summer hours,
Blue as a sky white-clouded, golden-starr'd,
Whereby we may surmise not far from thence
Mountains of myrrh and hills of frankincense.
I read the Hebrew late into the night;
At last the lilies faded, and the copse
Had no more fragrance, and I lost delight,
As when in some sweet tongue a poem stops,
Half understood—yet being once begun,
Our hearts are strangely poorer when 'tis done.
At last the lilies faded, and the copse
Had no more fragrance, and I lost delight,
As when in some sweet tongue a poem stops,
Half understood—yet being once begun,
Our hearts are strangely poorer when 'tis done.
Two volumes lay before me. One a tome
Which heretofore for years had stood between
Tender Augustine, terrible Hierome;
And the last Father's name was duly seen
In faded letters betwixt leather thongs—
Saint Bernard's Sermons on the Song of Songs.
Which heretofore for years had stood between
Tender Augustine, terrible Hierome;
And the last Father's name was duly seen
In faded letters betwixt leather thongs—
Saint Bernard's Sermons on the Song of Songs.
The other, fresh from Paris, Le Cantique,
Look'd a thin volume of a new romance.
Yet did I pray, ‘O Spirit whom I seek,
Teach me by which of these two lights of France
The unbegun Beginning I may reach,
Thy sweetest novelty in oldest speech.’
Look'd a thin volume of a new romance.
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Teach me by which of these two lights of France
The unbegun Beginning I may reach,
Thy sweetest novelty in oldest speech.’
I.—M. RENAN'S INTERPRETATION
So the two books I read; the first whereof,
A drama of earth's flame this song did deem—
Five acts with epilogue, sweet tale of love,
Shepherd and vine-dresser—such shiyr shyriym
Idyllic as Theocritus might trill—
Say rather, a soft Hebrew vaudeville.
A drama of earth's flame this song did deem—
Five acts with epilogue, sweet tale of love,
Shepherd and vine-dresser—such shiyr shyriym
Idyllic as Theocritus might trill—
Say rather, a soft Hebrew vaudeville.
Solomon sweeps by with threescore mighty men,—
Poor dove, all fluttering in the falcon's beak,
So foully carried from her quiet glen!
He flashes on with her so sweetly weak,
Elderly, evil-eyed, and evil-soul'd,
Scented and cruel in a cloud of gold.
Poor dove, all fluttering in the falcon's beak,
So foully carried from her quiet glen!
He flashes on with her so sweetly weak,
Elderly, evil-eyed, and evil-soul'd,
Scented and cruel in a cloud of gold.
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To the accursèd palace they have come.
Dresses like rainbows float through the Harem.
To the faint plash of fountains never dumb
Are sung wild songs of earth's unholiest flame.
The large-eyed odalisks are lolling there;
The tambour taps, and bounds the bayadère.
Dresses like rainbows float through the Harem.
To the faint plash of fountains never dumb
Are sung wild songs of earth's unholiest flame.
The large-eyed odalisks are lolling there;
The tambour taps, and bounds the bayadère.
Ah! as in dreams her shepherd singing stands:
‘Arise, my love, my fair one, come away;
The winter has pass'd over into lands
Whose heritage is rain, whose heavens are gray.
Flow'rs for my flow'r, the turtle's voice is heard—
It is the green time for the singing bird.
‘Arise, my love, my fair one, come away;
The winter has pass'd over into lands
Whose heritage is rain, whose heavens are gray.
Flow'rs for my flow'r, the turtle's voice is heard—
It is the green time for the singing bird.
‘The exhalation of the vine-bloom flows
On the rich air. Why is my white dove mute
In the cleft of the rock? Behold, the figtree throws
Her aromatic heart into her fruit.
Save for me only spring is everywhere.
O let me hear thee from thy mountain stair.
On the rich air. Why is my white dove mute
In the cleft of the rock? Behold, the figtree throws
Her aromatic heart into her fruit.
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O let me hear thee from thy mountain stair.
Which hearing, in her heart she hums her lilt,
Learnt long ago of some dark vine-dresser.
Sing it, O maiden, whensoe'er thou wilt.
The vine-leaf shadow o'er thee is astir—
‘Let not the little foxes from thee 'scape,
Spoiling our vines that have the tender grape.’
Learnt long ago of some dark vine-dresser.
Sing it, O maiden, whensoe'er thou wilt.
The vine-leaf shadow o'er thee is astir—
‘Let not the little foxes from thee 'scape,
Spoiling our vines that have the tender grape.’
And so, O peasant girl, be won for wife.
No young Theresa of the Hebrews thou;
Yet an illusion traverses thy life
Which gives ideal light to thy dark brow,
Which makes home beautiful, and proudly sings
Songs of defiant purity to kings.
No young Theresa of the Hebrews thou;
Yet an illusion traverses thy life
Which gives ideal light to thy dark brow,
Which makes home beautiful, and proudly sings
Songs of defiant purity to kings.
And if no ecstasy lights up thy face,
No flame of seraphim consumes thy heart;
If thou hast natural truth, not heavenly grace—
At least, O sunburnt Shulamite! thou art
A tender witness to a purer lot
In the base centuries when love was not.
No flame of seraphim consumes thy heart;
If thou hast natural truth, not heavenly grace—
At least, O sunburnt Shulamite! thou art
A tender witness to a purer lot
In the base centuries when love was not.
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I smiled a moment. Then a discontent
Filled me with grief and spiritual shame.
‘Where, then?’ I cried, ‘is the old ravishment,
The ointment pour'd forth of the Holiest Name?
This song was once as fair for souls to mark
As the sod fresh cut to the prison'd lark—
Filled me with grief and spiritual shame.
‘Where, then?’ I cried, ‘is the old ravishment,
The ointment pour'd forth of the Holiest Name?
This song was once as fair for souls to mark
As the sod fresh cut to the prison'd lark—
‘A daisied sod whereon the bird in rapture
Quivers, remembering a little while
The large inheritance before his capture,
When from some azure and unmeasured mile
He rain'd down music, where the shadows pass
From the white cloud-sails o'er the glittering grass.’
Quivers, remembering a little while
The large inheritance before his capture,
When from some azure and unmeasured mile
He rain'd down music, where the shadows pass
From the white cloud-sails o'er the glittering grass.’
II.—ST. BERNARD'S INTERPRETATION
‘Whence skillest thou,’ his brother Girard said,
‘To trace these love-links every feast and fast?
Thou hast not much perused the deathless dead,
Yet shall these words of thine for ever last—
Little in space, but sparks of living flame,
Small buds indeed, but roses all the same.
‘To trace these love-links every feast and fast?
Thou hast not much perused the deathless dead,
Yet shall these words of thine for ever last—
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Small buds indeed, but roses all the same.
‘And happy we, to whom in thee are given
Such sweets both new and old, such lily flowers,
Such precious antepast of feasts of heaven.
High joy for us of these monastic bowers,
To gather on this green Burgundian lea
Thy pale gold honey, blossom-haunting bee.
Such sweets both new and old, such lily flowers,
Such precious antepast of feasts of heaven.
High joy for us of these monastic bowers,
To gather on this green Burgundian lea
Thy pale gold honey, blossom-haunting bee.
‘I know not, brother,’ and the Abbot smiled;
‘Yet thou rememberest the forest well.
A few years since the snow was on it piled.
Thou knowest how often ere the vesper-bell
My meditation was prolonged—and ye
Said it was sweet—perchance in flattery.
‘Yet thou rememberest the forest well.
A few years since the snow was on it piled.
Thou knowest how often ere the vesper-bell
My meditation was prolonged—and ye
Said it was sweet—perchance in flattery.
‘Nathless the young narcissus snowdrops came
With spring (our rustics call them “angels' tears”);
A hundred greens were out, no two the same;
The happy promise given by young years
For ever, and for evermore belied,
Lit the young leaves, and smiled some hours and died.
With spring (our rustics call them “angels' tears”);
A hundred greens were out, no two the same;
The happy promise given by young years
For ever, and for evermore belied,
Lit the young leaves, and smiled some hours and died.
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‘So came the spring to Burgundy. Then spoke
A voice from out the depths where earth's life stirs,
The Song of Songs reads well under the oak—
A soft interpretation sigh the firs;
And God's good Spirit taught me what to teach
Through the uncountable whispers of the beech.
A voice from out the depths where earth's life stirs,
The Song of Songs reads well under the oak—
A soft interpretation sigh the firs;
And God's good Spirit taught me what to teach
Through the uncountable whispers of the beech.
‘From the anemones pass'd to me my thought,
Through the woods trembling in their thin white robe
A subtler music came to me unsought
Upon the washing of the murmurous Aube;
And the long sunset rays on the great boles
Wrote me the comment of the holy souls.
Through the woods trembling in their thin white robe
A subtler music came to me unsought
Upon the washing of the murmurous Aube;
And the long sunset rays on the great boles
Wrote me the comment of the holy souls.
‘For were the Canticle a passion strain,
And if it spake of aught beneath the sky,
Then from its images thy heart could gain
A love-snatch only, or a botany;
Whereas, he finds in it who truly tries,
Strength from the strong, and wisdom from the wise.
And if it spake of aught beneath the sky,
Then from its images thy heart could gain
A love-snatch only, or a botany;
Whereas, he finds in it who truly tries,
Strength from the strong, and wisdom from the wise.
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‘Here is the ocean of the love divine
For the whole Church. What smaller than a sea
Can hold a sea? and yet thy heart and mine
Reflection of it hath for thee and me,
As one clear bubble sphereth for the eye
The azure amplitude of wave and sky.
For the whole Church. What smaller than a sea
Can hold a sea? and yet thy heart and mine
Reflection of it hath for thee and me,
As one clear bubble sphereth for the eye
The azure amplitude of wave and sky.
‘And this love-strain is never overtold.
When God Himself is our musician, say,
Wilt thou correct Him to a strain less bold,
And teach the mighty Master how to play?
Two, two alone can hear these tender things—
The soul that listens, and the soul that sings.’
When God Himself is our musician, say,
Wilt thou correct Him to a strain less bold,
And teach the mighty Master how to play?
Two, two alone can hear these tender things—
The soul that listens, and the soul that sings.’
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