So 66

My one holiday," oft the old man cried; "When shall the Bishop's holiday come again?" When the fierce Huns are on the mountain-side,

And he lies sick to death in August; when The cactus flowers of Hippo 'neath the blue

Are steep'd with crimson blood-drops through and through;

When through the date groves in the scarce-lit dales
Over the Seybous and his dreaming calms,
The importunate sweetness of the nightingales
Comes to the old man falling asleep with psalms;

And, a thin thread of scarlet, morning breaks
Silently on the Atlantéan peaks.

AN OLD VOLUME OF SERMONS.

SANCTI BERNARDI IN CANTICA.

SYNOPSIS.

Study of the Song of Songs-Two schools of interpretation—The first represented by M. Renan's “Le Cantique ”—The vaudeville theory -The second represented by St. Bernard's LXXXVI. Sermons upon Canticles-The influence of the book upon the saint's lifeHis early days-His mother Aleth-His renunciation of the world and of the worldly side of the Church-He brings with him his whole family, including his father, Sir Tescelin, and his sister, Humbeline -Clairvaux-Spiritual power of St. Bernard's teaching-Visit of St. Malachy, Archbishop of Armagh, to Clairvaux-His death there -Death of his brother Girard-Incapacity of nature to consoleSt. Bernard's sermon on Cant. i. 5-The Pope visits ClairvauxSimplicity of his reception-Sermon on Cant. ii. 16-Conclusion -Cant. v. 2, 5-Summary of the spiritual interpretation..

NOTE. In the composition of this poem, I have constantly availed myself of the interesting and accurate notices (Note sur Fontaine-lesDijon, patrie de St. Bernard, par l'Abbé Chenevet) and other local papers in the fourth volume of Migne's edition of St. Bernard's works, pp. 1621-1661.

The death of St. Malachy at Clairvaux took place in 1148. St. Bernard has written the archbishop's life, which is here closely followed. The visit of Pope Innocent to Clairvaux was many years earlier, in 1131. Ernald's account has been carefully used. "A pauperibus Christi, non purpurâ et bysso ornatis, nec cum deauratis Evangeliis

occurrentibus, sed pannosis agminibus scopulosam bajulantibus crucem, non tumultuantium classicorum tonitruo, non clamosâ jubilatione, sed suppressâ modulatione affectuosissime susceptus est. Flebant episcopi, fleba tipse summus Pontifex; omnes mirabantur congregationis illius gravitatem. Nihil in ecclesiâ illâ videbat Romanus quod cuperet. Nihil in oratorio nisi nudos viderunt parietes. Solennitas non cibis, sed virtutibus agebatur. Panis ibi autopyrus pro simila, pro careno sapa, pro rhombis olera, pro quibuslibet deliciis legumina ponebantur. Si forte piscis inventus est, domino Papæ appositus est, et aspectu, non usu, in commune profecit" (St. Bernard, "Vita," lib. ii., Auctore Ernaldo., ap. opp. S. Bernard, iv. 272). Passages from the Sermons on the Canticles are freely transferred to the poem. Mr. Frederic Harrison's beautiful and appreciative article on St. Bernard did not reach me until my verses were almost finished. Of such a writer one can but say, "Cum talis sis, utinam noster esoes."

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.

Strange words of beauty hung upon mine ear-
Semada, 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.

And purple paradise of pomegranate flowers,
Kopher, kinnamon, 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.

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."

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."

So the two books I read; the first whereof,

A drama of earth's flame this song did deem— Five acts with epilogue, tale of true 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.*

* Cant. iii. 6-11. M. Renan, "Étude sur le Cantique," pp. 30,

31, 190, 191.

To the accursed 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.

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 grey. 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 fig-tree throws Her aromatic heart into her fruit.

Save for me only spring is everywhere.

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."

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.