Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern — Volume 04

by Unknown

Twelfth Century

BY WILLIAM C. PRIME

ittle is known concerning the monk Bernard, sometimes called Bernard of Morlay and sometimes Bernard of Cluny. The former name is probably derived from the place of his origin, the latter from the fact that in the introduction to his poem 'De Contemptu Mundi' he describes himself as a brother of the monks of Cluny. He lived in the twelfth century, a period of much learning in the church; and that he was himself a man of broad scholarship and brilliant abilities, the Latin poem, his only surviving work, abundantly testifies.

This poem, divided into three books, consists in all of about three thousand lines. It is introduced by a short address in prose to Father Peter, the abbot of the monastery, in which the author describes the peculiar operations of his mind in undertaking and accomplishing his marvelous poem. He believes and asserts, "not arrogantly, but in all humility and therefore boldly," that he had divine aid. "Unless the spirit of wisdom and understanding had been with me and filled me, I had never been able to construct so long a work in such a difficult metre."

This metre is peculiar. In technical terms each line consists of three parts: the first part including two dactyls, the second part two dactyls, the third part one dactyl and one trochee. The final trochee, a long and a short syllable, rhymes with the following or preceding line. There is also a rhyme, in each line, of the second dactyl with the fourth. This will be made plain to the ordinary reader by quoting the first two lines of the poem, divided into feet:--

Hora no | vissima | tempora | pessima | sunt, vigi | lemus;
Ecce mi | naciter | imminet | arbiter | ille su | premus.

The adoption of such a metre would seem to be a clog on flexibility and force of expression. But in this poem it is not so. The author rejoices in absolute freedom of diction. The rhythm and rhyme alike lend themselves to the uses, now of bitter satire and revilings, now of overpowering hope and exultant joy.

The title scarcely gives an idea of the subject-matter of the poem. The old Benedictine, living for the time in his cell, had nevertheless known the world of his day, had lived in it and been of it. To him it seemed an evil world, full of crimes, of moils, of deceits, of abominations; the Church seemed corrupt, venal, shameless, and Rome the centre and the soul of this accursed world. Pondering on these conditions, the monk turned his weary gaze toward the celestial country, the country of purity and peace, and to the King on his throne, the centre and source of eternal beatitude. The contrast, on which he dwelt for a long time, filled him on the one hand with burning indignation, on the other with entrancing visions and longings.

At last he broke out into magnificent poetry. It is not possible to translate him into any other language than the Latin in which he wrote, and preserve any of the grandeur and beauty which result from the union of ardent thought with almost miraculous music of language. Dr. Neale aptly speaks of the majestic sweetness which invests Bernard's poem. The expression applies specially to those passages, abounding in all parts of the poem, in which he describes the glory and the peace of the better country. Many of these have been translated or closely imitated by Dr. Neale, with such excellent effect that several hymns which are very popular in churches of various denominations have been constructed from Dr. Neale's translations. Other portions of the poem, especially those in which the vices and crimes of the Rome of that time are denounced and lashed with unsparing severity, have never been translated, and are not likely ever to be, because of the impossibility of preserving in English the peculiar force of the metre; and translation without this would be of small value. The fire of the descriptions of heaven is increased by the contrast in which they stand with descriptions of Rome in the twelfth century. Here, for example, is a passage addressed to Rome:--

"Fas mihi dicere, fas mihi scribere 'Roma fuisti,'
Obruta moenibus, obruta moribus, occubuisti.
Urbs ruis inclita, tam modo subdita, quam prius alta:
Quo prius altior, tam modo pressior, et labefacta.
Fas mihi scribere, fas mihi dicere 'Roma, peristi.'
Sunt tua moenia vociferantia 'Roma ruisti.'"

And here is one addressed to the City of God:--

"O sine luxibus, O sine luctibus, O sine lite,
Splendida curia, florida patria, patria vitæ.
Urbs Syon inclita, patria condita littore tuto,
Te peto, te colo, te flagro, te volo, canto, saluto."

While no translation exists of this remarkable work, nor indeed can be made to reproduce the power and melody of the original, yet a very good idea of its spirit may be had from the work of Dr. J. Mason Neale, who made from selected portions this English poem, which is very much more than what he modestly called it, "a close imitation." Dr. Neale has made no attempt to reproduce the metre of the original.

BRIEF LIFE IS HERE OUR PORTION
Brief life is here our portion,
Brief sorrow, short-lived care:
The Life that knows no ending,
The tearless Life, is there:
O happy retribution,
Short toil, eternal rest!
For mortals and for sinners
A mansion with the Blest!
That we should look, poor wanderers,
To have our home on high!
That worms should seek for dwellings
Beyond the starry sky!
And now we fight the battle,
And then we wear the Crown
Of full and everlasting
And passionless renown:
Then glory, yet unheard of,
Shall shed abroad its ray;
Resolving all enigmas,
An endless Sabbath-day.
Then, then, from his oppressors
The Hebrew shall go free,
And celebrate in triumph
The year of Jubilee:
And the sun-lit land that recks not
Of tempest or of fight
Shall fold within its bosom
Each happy Israelite.
'Midst power that knows no limit,
And wisdom free from bound,
The Beatific Vision
Shall glad the Saints around;
And peace, for war is needless,
And rest, for storm is past,
And goal from finished labor,
And anchorage at last.
There God, my King and Portion,
In fullness of His Grace,
Shall we behold forever,
And worship face to face;
There Jacob into Israel,
From earthlier self estranged,
And Leah into Rachel
Forever shall be changed;
There all the halls of Syon
For aye shall be complete:
And in the land of Beauty
All things of beauty meet.
To thee, O dear, dear country!
Mine eyes their vigils keep;
For very love, beholding
Thy happy name, they weep:
The mention of Thy glory
Is unction to the breast,
And medicine in sickness,
And love, and life, and rest.
O one, O onely mansion!
O Paradise of joy!
Where tears are ever banished,
And smiles have no alloy:
Beside thy living waters
All plants are, great and small;
The cedar of the forest,
The hyssop of the wall;
With jaspers glow thy bulwarks,
Thy streets with emeralds blaze;
The sardius and the topaz
Unite in thee their rays;
Thine ageless walls are bonded
With amethyst unpriced;
Thy saints build up its fabric,
And the Corner-stone is CHRIST.
Thou hast no shore, fair Ocean!
Thou hast no time, bright Day!
Dear fountain of refreshment
To pilgrims far away!
Upon the Rock of Ages
They raise thy holy Tower.
Thine is the Victor's laurel,
And thine the golden dower.
Thou feel'st in mystic rapture,
O Bride that know'st no guile,
The Prince's sweetest kisses,
The Prince's loveliest smile.
Unfading lilies, bracelets
Of living pearl, thine own;
The Lamb is ever near thee,
The Bridegroom thine alone;
And all thine endless leisure
In sweetest accents sings
The ills that were thy merit,
The joys that are thy King's.
Jerusalem the golden!
With milk and honey blest,
Beneath thy contemplation
Sink heart and voice opprest;
I know not, oh, I know not
What social joys are there,
What radiancy of glory,
What light beyond compare;
And when I fain would sing them,
My spirit fails and faints,
And vainly would it image
The assembly of the Saints.
They stand, those halls of Syon,
All jubilant with song,
And bright with many an Angel,
And many a Martyr throng;
The Prince is ever in them,
The light is aye serene;
The Pastures of the Blessed
Are decked in glorious sheen;
There is the Throne of David,
And there, from toil released,
The shout of them that triumph,
The song of them that feast;
And they, beneath their Leader,
Who conquered in the fight,
For ever and for ever
Are clad in robes of white.
Jerusalem the glorious!
The glory of the elect,
O dear and future vision
That eager hearts expect:
Ev'n now by faith I see thee,
Ev'n here thy walls discern;
To thee my thoughts are kindled
And strive and pant and yearn:
Jerusalem the onely,
That look'st from Heav'n below,
In thee is all my glory,
In me is all my woe:
And though my body may not,
My spirit seeks thee fain;
Till flesh and earth return me
To earth and flesh again.
O Land that seest no sorrow!
O State that fear'st no strife!
O princely bowers! O Land of flowers!
O realm and Home of Life!

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