Classic Poem

THE TITLE .

This Song of Solomon the wise
As penman fam'd belongs;
And justly for its sacred rise,
Is nam'd the Song of Songs.

THE CHURCH'S WORDS .

With kisses of thy mouth divine,
O let me favour'd be:
For better than the richest wine
Thy love appears to me.

Thy name like ointment sweet pour'd out
Doth all perfumes excel;
Hence virgin-souls, the sacred rout
Of saints do love thee well.

O draw me with thy loving cord;
We will run after thee:
Lo! to his chambers deck'd, my Lord,
The King hath handed me.

In thee we'll joy; this love of thine
We'll mind, with more delight
Than all the blessings of the vine:
Thou'rt lov'd by the upright.

O Salem's race, I'm black o'ergrown,
As tents of Kedar were;
But comely too by grace I own,
As Sol'mon's curtains fair.

View not my scorch'd and sun-burnt face;
No beauty there you'll see:
My mother churches angry race
Have roughly dealt with me.

Their hate and envy made me trudge,
Their vineyards to inspect:
And while at theirs I was a drudge,
Mine own I did neglect.

But thou, my soul's beloved One,
O tell me, I request!
Where feedest thou, and where at noon
Mak'st thou thy flock to rest:

For why should I with sorrow stain'd,
As one led off the way,
'Mong flocks of thy companions feign'd
Be left to go astray?

CHRIST'S WORDS .

Know'st thou not, fairest of fair brides?
Go trace the feet of saints,
The flock's fair steps, and feed thy kids
Beside the shepherds tents.

My love, I have, to hold thee out
'Gainst foes that would thee wrong,
Made thee like Pharaoh's stately rout,
Of chariot horses strong.

Great comeliness thy dress bespeaks;
The graces all thee deck;
Rare jewel-rows adorn thy cheeks,
And golden chains thy neck.

My Father working still with me,
We will with pow'r divine,
More golden borders make for thee,
With studs of silver fine.

THE CHURCH'S WORDS .

Lo! while the King of Zion crown'd,
Sits at his table head,
My spikenard, flowing, doth around
Its grateful odour spread.

Like as of myrrh a bundle, lo!
My well-beloved guest
Shall, all the night of sin and wo,
Within my bosom rest.

In vineyards fair of Engedi,
Are camphire clusters sweet:
Much more is my belov'd to me.
When he and I do meet.

CHRIST'S WORDS

Lo! thou art fair; lo! thou, my love,
Art fair, without disguise;
The beauties of the modest dove
Are in thy graceful eyes.

THE CHURCH'S WORDS .

Nay, my Belov'd, who me to screen,
Thy beauty put'st on me,
Thrice fair art thou: yea, what a green
And flow'ry bed have we!

The royal house of our repair
Hath beams of cedar strong,
With cypress galleries: and there
In state we walk along.