1 No other shelter or sanctuary can he find. And then, in wild, fierce, yet self-collected, wanderings, "Gehenna buckled under his calm belt," he walks astray, over the wilderness of this world, seeking, above all things, after rest; or that he should awake, and find his pilgrimage, indeed, to be a dream! Thus pass on the three notable pilgrims-the crowned Solomon, the bush-lipped and fiery-eyed Baptist, and the strong literary Titan of this age—each, for a season, carrying his hand, like the victims in Vathek, upon his breast, and saying, "It burns." All attain, at last, a certain peace and satisfaction. The conclusion of Solomon's whole matter is, "Fear God, and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man." "Here is one solid spot amid an ocean of vexation, of uncertainty, of contradiction, and of vanity, and on it I will rest my weary foot." Bunyan, a poor, burdened sinner, clings to the cross, and it is straightway surrounded by the shining ones, who come from heaven to heal and comfort the sufferer. Sartor says, "I am not meant for pleasure; I despise it; happiness is not meant for me, nor for man; but I may be blessed in my misery and darkness, and this is far better." All those results seem beautiful, in the light of the tears and the tortures through which they have been reached. All are sincere and strong-felt. But, while the last is vague and unsupported as a wandering leaf, while the first is imperfect as the age in which it was uttered, the second is secure in its humility, strong in its weakness, has ministered, and is ministering, comfort, peace, and hope-how living and life-giving to thousands !—and if it fail "The pillared firmament is rottenness, We leave the machinery, the meaning, and the manners of Solomon's Song, to Charles Taylor, Pye Smith, and other critics; we have a sentence to say as to its spirit and poetry. It is conceived throughout in a vein of soft and tender feeling, and suffused with a rich, slumbrous light, like that of a July afternoon, trembling amid beds of roses. There are flowers, but they are not stirred, but fanned by the winds of passion. The winds of passion themselves are asleep to their own music. The figures of speech are love-sick. The dialogues seem carried on in whispers. Over all the scenery, from the orchards of pomegranates, the trees of frankincense, and the fountains of the gardens, to the lions' dens, and the mountains of the leopards, i there rests a languor, like sunny mist, and shines "the bloom of young desire, and purple light of love." To call all this the effect of an oriental climate and genius, is incorrect; for, first, all the writings in Scripture were by orientals; and, secondly, we find certain occidental poems, such as "Romeo and Juliet," or "Lalla Rookh," nearly as rich as the Song. We must either trace it to some sudden impulse given to the imagination of Solomon, whether by spring coming before her time-or appearing in more than her wonted beauty or flushing over the earth with more than her wonted spirit-like speed-or by the access of a new passion, which, even in advanced life, makes all things, from the winter in the blood to the face of nature, new and fresh, as if after a shower of sunny rain; or we may trace it, with the general voice of the church, to the influence of new views of the loveliness of Messiah's character and of his future church, around whom, as if hastily to pay the first-fruits of the earth's homage to her lord and his bride, cluster in here all natural beauties, at once reflecting their image and multiplying their splendors. Solomon might have had in his eye a similar vision to that afterward seen by John of the bride, the Lamb's wife, coming down from God out of heaven; and surely John himself never described his vision under sweeter, although he has with sublimer, images. "I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys. As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters." "Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners ?" We notice in this poem two classes of descriptions-the one of persons, the other of natural scenes-and a singular contrast between them. Solomon's description of persons is, in general, gorgeous to exuberance. Images, from artificial and from natural objects, are collected, till the bride or bridegroom is decked with as many ornaments as a summer's landscape or a winter's night sky; the raven's plumage is plucked from his wing, the dove's eye is extracted from its socket, perfumes are brought from beds of spices, and lilies led drooping out of their low valleys-nay, the vast Lebanon is himself ransacked to garnish and glorify the one dear image; on the other hand, the description of natural scenes is simple in the extreme, yet beautiful as if nature were describing herself. "The winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land." This is the green of nature looking in amid the glare of passion. We have here love first exaggerating the object beloved, and then retiring to hide her blushes of shame amid the cool leaves of the garden. We find, in Shakespeare, a similar intermixture of natural objects with passionate scenes, and a similar subdued tone in their description. It is not that he does this for the sake of effect, nor that he quails-he merely cools-before nature. The natural allusions act like the touch of female affection, laid on the red brow of passion, and opening the fountain of tears. His madmen, like poor Lear, are crowned with flowers; his castles of gloom and murder are skimmed by swallows, and swaddled in delicate air; in his loneliest ruins lurk wild grasses and flowers, and around them the lightning itself becomes a crown of glory. Regarding the question as to the Christian application of the Song, as still a moot, and as a non-essential point, we forbear to express an opinion on it. As a love dialogue, colored to the proper degree with a sensuous flush, "beautiful exceedingly" in its poetry, and portraying with elegance, ancient customs, and the inextinguishable principles of the human heart, this poem is set unalterably in its own niche. It has had many commentaries, but, in our judgment, the only writer who has caught 66 its warm and glowing spirit, is Samuel Rutherford, who has not, indeed, written a commentary upon it, but whose "Letters" are inspired by its influence, and have nearly reproduced all its language. Despite the extravagancies with which they abound, when we consider the heavenliness of their spirit, the richness of their fancy, the daring, yet devout tone of their language, the wrestling earnestness of their exercise, their aspirings after the Savior, in whom the writer's soul often sees seven heavens," and to gain whom, he would burst through "ten hells"-we say, blessings and perfumes on the memory of those dungeons whence so many of these letters came, and on that of their rapt, seraphic author whose chains have been "glorious liberty to many a son of God." The soul was strong which could spring heaven-high under his prison load, and which has made the cells of his supposed infamy holy and haunted ground, both to the lovers of liberty and the worshipers of God. It is with a certain melancholy that we dismiss the great monarch of Israel. We remember once feeling a strong shudder of horror at hearing an insinuation (we believe not true) that the author of a very popular and awful religious poem, was not himself a pious man. It was one of those assertions which make the heart quake, and the hand catch convulsively at the nearest object, as if earth were sinking below us. But the thought of the writer of a portion of the Bible being a "castaway”—a thought entertained by some of repute in the Christian world—is far more painful. It may not, as we have seen, detract from, but rather add to, the effect of his writings; but does it not surround them with a black margin? Does not every sentence of solemn wisdom they contain, seem clothed in mourning for the fate of its parent? On Solomon's fate, we dare pronounce no judgment; but, even granting his final happiness, it is no pleasing task to record the mistakes, the sins, the sorrows, or even the repentance of a being originally so noble. If at "evening time it was light" with him, yet did not a scorching splendor torment the noon, and did not thunders, melting into heavy showers, obscure the after-day? The "glory of Solomon" is a fearful and troubled glory: how different from the meek light of the life of Isaac-most blameless of patriarchs-whose history is that of a quiet, gray autumnal day, where, with no sun visible, all above and below seems diluted sunshine-a day as dear as it is beautiful, and which dies regretted, as it has lived enjoyed! |