Part 3

But the case is idly put. If such extinguishing Death were from the first seen as it is when it comes, Love would either not exist; or else would be a mere fellowship of coarse appetites, like those of the Satyr, who crushes the grape for drunken revelry, and basks and battens in the woods.

XXXVI.

Although, even in manhood, the great truths of Religion only

"darkly join, Deep-seated in our mystic frame"--

since at best we only see as through a glass darkly: we nevertheless bless His name, who "made them current coin," so as to be generally intelligible. This was done by the teaching of Parables.

For Divine Wisdom, having to deal with mortal powers, conveyed sacred truth through "lowly doors," by embodying it in earthly similitudes; because "closest words" will not explain Divine things, owing to the imperfection of human language; "and so the Word had breath," "God was manifest in the flesh" (1 Tim. iii., 16, and 1 John, 14), and by good works wrought the best of all creeds, which the labourer in the field, the mason, the grave-digger,

"And those wild eyes that watch the wave In roarings round the coral reef,"

even the savage of the Pacific Islands, can see and understand, being conveyed to him through both the miracles and parables of the Gospel.

XXXVII.

He imagines Urania, the heavenly Muse, to reprove him for venturing on sacred ground, and commenting on religious themes; as she would have him confine his steps to his own Parnassus, and there earn the laurel crown.

But his own tragic Muse, Melpomene, replies with the apology, that though unworthy to speak of holy mysteries, yet with his earthly song he had striven to soothe his own aching heart, and render a due tribute to human love; and inasmuch as the comfort he had drawn was "clasp'd in truth reveal'd," had its foundation in the Gospel: he daringly

"loiter'd in the Master's field, And darken'd sanctities with song."

Many readers of _In Memoriam_ will have thanked its author for these trespasses upon the Holy Land, feeling indeed there was no profane intrusion.

Some will regret that he has changed the original line, "and dear as sacramental wine," into "and dear to me as sacred wine:" the purpose, one supposes, was that the reader should see that he spoke only for himself--"to me"--the meaning is unchanged, but the sound is rather flat.

XXXVIII.

The sadness of his heart has fully returned, and the journey of life is dull and weary. The skies above and the prospect before him are no longer what they used to be, when Hallam was by. "The blowing season," when _plants are blossoming_: the "herald melodies of spring," when the birds proclaim that winter is past, give him no joy; but in his own songs he finds a "gleam of solace;" and if after death there be any consciousness retained of what has been left upon earth,

"Then are these songs I sing of thee Not all ungrateful to thine ear."

XXXIX.

This Poem has been recently introduced, as already stated (see P. ii.). The Yew tree does really blossom, and form fruit and seed like other trees, though we may not notice it.

The Poet now says, that his "random stroke" on the tree brings off

"Fruitful cloud and living smoke;"

Also that at the proper season

"Thy gloom is kindled at the tips."

The fact is, that the flower is bright yellow in colour, but very minute; and when the tree is shaken, the pollen comes off like dust, and then the tree seems to resume its old gloom.

So the spirit of the Poet may brighten for a moment, and then return to its accustomed melancholy.

XL.

He wishes "the widow'd hour" when he lost his friend, could be forgotten, or rather recalled like an occasion when the bride leaves her first home for "other realms of love." There are tears then, but April tears--rain and sunshine mixed; and as the bride's future office may be to rear and teach another generation--uniting grandparents with grand-children--so he has no doubt that to Hallam

"is given A life that bears immortal fruit In such great offices as suit The full-grown energies of heaven."

But then comes this difference. The bride will return in course of time with her baby, and all at her old home will be happier for her absence--whereas

"thou and I have shaken hands, Till growing winters lay me low; My paths are in the fields I know, But thine in undiscover'd lands."

XLI.

Whilst together upon earth they could advance in company, though Hallam's spirit and intellect were ever soaring upwards. Now, the links which united them are lost, and he can no longer partake in his friend's transformations. So, (folly though it be,) he wishes that, by an effort of will, he could

"leap the grades of life and light, And flash at once, my friend, to thee."

See P. xcv., 9.

For, though he has no vague dread of death and "the gulfs beneath," yet the chilling thought comes over him, that in death he may not be able to overtake his friend, but evermore remain "a life behind" him,

"Through all the secular to be"--

all future ages: and that so he shall be his mate no more, which is his great trouble.

"The howlings of forgotten fields"

is probably a classical allusion to those "fields" of mystic horror, over which the spirits of the departed were supposed to range, uttering wild shrieks and cries. Has Dante no such allusion?[26]

This Poem intimates the idea of progress and advancement after death.

XLII.

He reproaches himself for these fancies; for inasmuch as it was only unity of place which gave them the semblance of equality here--Hallam being always really ahead--why may not "Place retain us still,"[27] when I too am dead, and can be trained and taught anew by this "lord of large experience?"

"And what delights can equal those That stir the spirit's inner deeps, When one that loves but knows not, reaps A truth from one that loves and knows?"

There are no pleasures so sweet, as the imbibings of instruction from the lips of those who are both superior and dear to us.

It is evident that Hallam's translation in death, had exalted his friend's estimation of him whilst living, for see the Poet's note at the end of Poem xcvii.

XLIII.

If, in the intermediate state, we find that

"Sleep and death be truly one"--

as St. Paul himself might lead us to believe--

"And every spirit's folded bloom"

--the slumbering soul being like a flower which closes at night--reposed, unconscious of the passage of time, but with silent traces of the past marked upon it;[28] then the lives of all, from the beginning of time, would contain in their shut-up state a record of all that had ever happened;

"And love will last as pure and whole, As when he loved me here in Time, And at the spiritual prime Rewaken with the dawning soul."

At the resurrection, the old affection will revive.

XLIV.

How fare the happy dead? Here man continuously grows, but he forgets what happened

"before God shut the doorways of his head;"

that is, before the skull of the infant closed. Yet sometimes

"A little flash, a mystic hint"

suggests the possibility of a previous existence.[29] "If death so taste Lethean springs," as to leave a trace on the soul of what had happened upon earth--the Poet here makes Lethe produce remembrance, instead of forgetfulness, which is its normal effect. Dante describes the double power of the mythic stream in Purgatory (Can. xxviii., l. 134)--

"On this, devolved with power to take away Remembrance of offence; on that, to bring Remembrance back of every good deed done. From whence its name of Lethe on this part; On the other, Eunoe."--Cary's Translation.

And so, "in the long harmonious years" of death, some dim touch of earthly things may reach Hallam whilst ranging with his equals. If this should be allowed, "O turn thee round," "resolve the doubt," whether thou art conscious of a previous life, and listen to my guardian angel, who will tell thee all about us here.

XLV.

The child, still in its mother's arms, has no consciousness of its own individual life and identity; and it is with its growth that it acquires a sense of separate and isolated being, independent of all around.

The acquisition of this consciousness may be the use of "blood and breath," which otherwise would have achieved no worthy end; as we should have to learn ourselves afresh after the second birth of death, if these had not assured us of our indisputable personality.

XLVI.

In this life we experience "thorn and flower," grief and joy; and the past becomes mercifully shaded as time goes on, otherwise the retrospect would be intolerable. But hereafter all shadow on what has happened will be removed, and all will be "clear from marge to marge;" and the five years of earthly friendship will be the "richest field" in the "eternal landscape."

Yet this would be a limited range for Love, which ought to extend without any circumscription,

"A rosy warmth from marge to marge,"

its expansion interminable.

XLVII.

This great and religious Poem has been absurdly said to teach Pantheism, which these stanzas refute; or perhaps they rather deny the doctrine of Spinoza, if that be clearly understood.

At any rate, to be conscious of "a separate whole"--a distinct individuality--and yet merge at last

"in the general Soul, Is faith as vague as all unsweet: Eternal form shall still divide The eternal soul from all beside; And I shall know him when we meet."

St. Paul is not more distinct and emphatic upon our individuality hereafter, when he says, we shall "be clothed upon with our house which is from heaven," 2 Cor. v., 2; that is, we shall put on a spiritual _body_, that will give identity and form.

Delighting in the thought of

"Enjoying each the other's good,"

he feels to have attracted the approving Shade of Hallam, and this reluctantly fades away, with the tender parting:

"Farewell, we lose ourselves in light."

_If indeed we are to be merged in the universal Soul, let us have at least one more parting, before we lose our individualities in the Great Being._

XLVIII.

This Poem disclaims any attempt at settling religious difficulties. The verses are of "sorrow born," the result of private grief; and if misunderstood, and open to the charge of attempting to solve such grave questions of doubt as affect some minds, they would deserve the scorn of men.

Sorrow does not undertake severe argument; but if a "slender shade of doubt" flits before it, it would make this doubt a "vassal unto love," and yield to Love's supreme authority.

Love ought to be our ruler and guide, and these lays of sadness are merely

"Short swallow-flights of song, that dip Their wings in tears, and skim away."

XLIX.

He compares the "random influences" of Art, Nature, and the Schools, to light breaking in shivered lances on the dappled water. For even so does "the sullen surface" of the mind become "crisp" and curled with the wave of thought, the eddy of fancy, the air of song.

The transient passenger may look and go on his way, but must not blame such mental perturbations: for

"Beneath all fancied hopes and fears, Ay me,[30] the sorrow deepens down, Whose muffled motions blindly drown The bases of my life in tears."

L.

He invokes Hallam's spirit to be near him in his various moods of distress--when he is filled with nervous apprehensions, when faith seems gone, and Time to be only "a maniac scattering dust," and Life to be "a Fury slinging flame:" when men also appear to be no more than flies, that sting and weave their cells and die. But above all,

"Be near me when I fade away, To point the term of human strife, And on the low dark verge of life, The twilight of eternal day."

The idea is sustained, that we shall go through the darkness of death, when Time will be lost, into the dawning light of Eternity; and the Poet would have his friend be near him at this translation.

LI.

Dare we indeed challenge the dead to inspect us? Have we "no inner vileness" that we would not have them discover? Would the Poet be lessened in Hallam's esteem and affection, when "some hidden shame" was exposed? No,

"There must be wisdom with great Death: The dead shall look me thro' and thro'."

* * * * *

"They watch, like God, the rolling hours With larger other eyes than ours, To make allowance for us all."

LII.

He complains of his own inability to love Hallam as he ought, that is, worthily; because, if he did so, he would be equal to his friend,

"For love reflects the thing beloved;"

whereas his words are words only, the "froth of thought."

The Spirit of love reproves this self-accusation:

"Thou canst not move me from thy side, Nor human frailty do me wrong."

There is no ideal of excellence, which we may conceive, that will ensure our attaining to it:

"not the sinless years That breathed beneath the Syrian blue"--

not the life of Christ, in the clear atmosphere of Palestine, keeps any spirit "wholly true" to that pattern of perfection.

So be not "like an idle girl," fretting over little faults--"flecks of sin." But wait, thy wealth will be gathered in--thy worth shown

"When Time hath sunder'd shell from pearl"--

when the flesh has left the Soul free from its contaminating influence.

LIII.

He has often known a father, now

"A sober man among his boys,"

whose youth was noisy and foolish. Are we then to conclude from his example, that had there been no wild oats sown, there scarcely would have come

"The grain by which a man may live?"

If we ventured to name such a doctrine among the old, who have "outlived heats of youth," would we preach it to the young, who still "eddy round and round?"

Hold fast what is good, and define it well; and take care that "divine Philosophy" does not exceed her legitimate bound and become

"Procuress to the lords of hell"--

by advocating sin as the path to sanctity.

LIV.

This Poem expresses a hope in Universalism--

"that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill"--

that natural propensities, wilful sins, imperfect faith, and inherited weakness, may all find a pardonable solution.

He hopes that nothing has been made in vain--

"That not one life shall be destroy'd, Or cast as rubbish to the void, When God hath made the pile complete."

But how reverently does he touch this mysterious subject!

"Behold, we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At last--far off--at last, to all, And every winter change to spring.

So runs my dream: but what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry."

In Poem cxxiv., stanza 5, he says,

"Then was I as a child that cries, But, crying, knows his father near."

LV.

He pursues the awful theme, and asks whether the wish for an universal restoration to life, does not spring from what is "likest God" in our own souls, His unlimited goodwill towards men, which would have all come to a knowledge of the truth?

"Are God and Nature then at strife?"

for we find Nature, whilst careful in preserving the type of each species, utterly reckless of the separate members. We find, too, that out of "fifty (_myriad_)[31] seeds" sown, only one perhaps germinates. He falters and falls down

"Upon the great world's altar-stairs,[32] That slope thro' darkness up to God;"--

but still he stretches forth "lame hands of faith"

"To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope"--

the hope of a final restitution of all things.

LVI.

He said that Nature preserved each type; but no, some species are already extinct; and Nature says that she cares not for preserving anything, and so, in geological strata, we find the fossil remains of creatures that no longer exist.[33] Why then may not man,

"Who seemed so fair, Such splendid purpose in his eyes,"

also perish, and have his dust blown about the desert,

"Or seal'd within the iron hills?"

If he be "no more"[34]--if there be nothing beyond this life for him--then is man but a monster, a dream, a discord--"dragons of the prime," the Ichthyosauri that lived in the slime of chaos, were his betters!

"O life as futile, then, as frail! O for thy voice to soothe and bless![35] What hope of answer or redress? Behind the veil, behind the veil."

LVII.

"Peace, come away," may possibly be addressed to his sister, whom he now calls away from the sad subject which his earthly song had treated.

He says his companion's cheeks are pale, so it is time that they should turn to other things, though in doing so, he must leave half his own life behind. His "friend is richly shrined;" but what will become of himself? "I shall pass; my work will fail."

_The author speaks of these poems--"me-thinks, I have built a rich shrine for my friend, but it will not last."_ At any rate, so long as he lives will the tolling of Hallam's passing bell[36] be in his ears; and the strokes on the bell, "Ave" and "Adieu," hail and farewell, are like the notes of perpetual separation. They seem to be parted "for evermore."[37] He is in the lowest depth of woe.[38]

LVIII.

It has been thought that there might have been an interval after the composition of the previous Poem; and that the author resumed his task in a more hopeful state of mind.

He now compares the words of his late farewell to the echoes of dropping water in burial vaults, and he says that other hearts besides his own were affected by his lamentation.

Urania reproaches him for thus distributing a fruitless grief amongst those who had shared his sense of loss; and, exhorting him to wait with patience for a more resigned feeling, she assures him that it will come to his great relief--

"Abide a little longer here, And thou shalt take a nobler leave"--

be able to speak with more confidence of their meeting again.

LIX.

He invites Sorrow to live with him as a wife, always and constant, not as a casual mistress: being his "bosom-friend and half of life," even as it were Hallam himself.

Sorrow must remain his centred passion which cannot move; nevertheless it will not always be gloomy: but rather allow occasional playfulness, so that it would not be commonly known that he had a life-long affliction.[39]

LX.

He cannot dismiss the memory of his loss, and calls Hallam "a soul of nobler tone," superior to himself, who is feeling "like some poor girl" that has fixed her affections on a man of higher rank than her own. She compares her state with his, and sighs over her own inferior circumstances, and repines at her humbler lot. The neighbours jeer at her disappointment, and she says

"How vain am I! How should he love a thing so low?"

No doubt, the passing into a higher world gave Hallam a superior dignity in the Poet's estimation.[40]

LXI.

If Hallam, in the intermediate state be exchanging replies with the great intellects there assembled from all time,--"the spirits of just men made perfect"--how dwarfed and insignificant must seem any intercourse with his friend still left here--

"How blanch'd with darkness must I grow!"

This figure of speech will be taken from the blanching of vegetables in the dark. Still, he would have him turn to

"the doubtful shore,[41] Where thy first form was made a man;"

that is, to this world, distinguishing it from that "second state sublime," into which Hallam had been admitted; for not even there can more affection be found, than I conceived and yet cherish:

"I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can The soul of Shakespeare love thee more."

This is all that even Shakespeare can do, if he and thou be now compeers.

LXII.

If looking down on the object of his affection makes his friend ashamed, then let their friendship be to him but as an idle tale or legend of the past. And Hallam may feel as one might, who having once had a low attachment, did afterwards wed an equal mind.[42]

The first love then either wholly dies out, or

"Is matter for a flying smile"--

a subject for ridicule.

LXIII.

Still, if I can pity an overdriven horse, or love my dog, without robbing heaven of its dues of reverence, when these animals are as much below me as I am thy inferior; why mayest not thou "watch me, where I weep," from thy circuits of higher heights and deeper depths than mine?

LXIV.

He asks whether Hallam is looking back on this life,

"As some divinely gifted man,"

who has burst through all the adverse circumstances of his humble birth, by genius and labour; making

"by force his merit known, And lives to clutch the golden keys, To mould a mighty state's decrees, And shape the whisper of the throne;"

as Lord Beaconsfield did.

Does not such a hero in his elevation,

"When all his active powers are still,"

sometimes feel tender memories of the scenes of his early life--

"The limit of his narrower fate"--

when he "play'd at counsellors and kings" with some lad long ago left behind in his native obscurity; and who now resting on his plough, musingly asks,

"Does my old friend remember me?"

LXV.

He clings to the memory of Hallam, yet would resign himself to his loss--

"Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt."

All that he can resolve is, to cherish every grain of love; and in doing so, there springs up the "happy thought," that if his own nature has been elevated by intercourse with Hallam, why may not a like result have been reflected from himself on his friend?

"Since we deserved the name of friends, And thine effect so lives in me, A part of mine may live in thee, And move thee on to noble ends."

LXVI.

He accounts for his cheerfulness to some one, who had wondered that being so far diseased in heart he could ever be gay.

He says that his own grief has made him feel kindly towards others; and that he is like a blind man, who though needing a hand to lead him, can still jest with his friends, take children on his knee and play with them, and dream of the sky he can no longer see:

"His inner day can never die, His night of loss is always there."

LXVII.

He pictures in his mind, as he lies in bed, how the moonlight that fills his chamber is passing its "silver flame" across the marble tablet in Clevedon Church,[43] which is inscribed to the memory of Hallam. The tablet is not in the chancel of the church, as erroneously stated in Mr. Hallam's private memoir of his son, and consequently so described in the earlier editions of this Poem, but it rests on the west wall of the south transept; and "the letters of thy name," and "the number of thy years," are thus most affectingly recorded:

"TO THE MEMORY OF ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM, OF TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, B.A., ELDEST SON OF HENRY HALLAM, ESQUIRE, AND OF JULIA MARIA, HIS WIFE, DAUGHTER OF SIR ABRAHAM ELTON, BART., OF CLEVEDON COURT, WHO WAS SNATCHED AWAY BY SUDDEN DEATH, AT VIENNA, ON SEPTEMBER 15TH, 1833, IN THE 23RD YEAR OF HIS AGE. AND NOW, IN THIS OBSCURE AND SOLITARY CHURCH, REPOSE THE MORTAL REMAINS OF ONE TOO EARLY LOST FOR PUBLIC FAME, BUT ALREADY CONSPICUOUS AMONG HIS CONTEMPORARIES FOR THE BRIGHTNESS OF HIS GENIUS, THE DEPTH OF HIS UNDERSTANDING, THE NOBLENESS OF HIS DISPOSITION, THE FERVOUR OF HIS PIETY, AND THE PURITY OF HIS LIFE.

_Vale dulcissime, vale dilectissime, desideratissime, requiescas in pace. Pater ac mater hic posthac requiescamus tecum, usque ad tubam._"[44]

When the moonlight dies he falls asleep, "closing eaves of wearied eyes;" and awakens to know how the grey break of day is drawn from "coast to coast," from Somersetshire to Wales, across the estuary of the Severn,[45]

"And in the dark church like a ghost Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn."

LXVIII.