Part 5

It must be understood that this Poem, as elsewhere, would describe _the relation of one on earth to one in the other and higher world--not the Author's relation to him here. He certainly looked up to the Author, fully as much as the Author to him._

XCVIII.

"You leave us." Some one is going on the very route which the friends had traversed together, and will reach "that City," Vienna, where Hallam died. All its splendour is to the Poet,

"No livelier than the wisp[71] that gleams On Lethe in the eyes of death;"

so great is his aversion to the place, on account of the loss he had sustained there; and he charges it with all manner of ill.

But Hallam had given him a very different description; saying that in no other metropolis--"mother town"--had he seen such stately carriages of the rich pass to and fro; and such a contented crowd enjoying themselves with dance and song, amidst a display of coloured fireworks.

XCIX.

This Poem is an address to the recurring anniversary of Hallam's death, which had before been commemorated in Poem lxxii.--

"Day, when I lost the flower of men."

The early signs of Autumn are very sweetly described, in personifying a day that will remind many of births and bridals, but still more of deaths; and wherever the sorrowing survivors may reside, they are on this day "kindred souls" with himself--though they be utter strangers--

"They know me not, but mourn with me."

This applies to all

"Betwixt the slumber of the poles,"--

from one end of the world to the other.

The poles of the earth are the ends of the axis on which the world revolves. These never move, but "slumber."

Autumn laying "a fiery finger on the leaves," is an expression similar to

"This maple burn itself away."--P. ci., 1.

"And the flying gold of the ruin'd woodlands drove thro' the air." --"Maud," stanza 3.

C.

Rising from his night's rest shortly before quitting the old home, and looking over the familiar landscape, which his friend had known so well; there is not a feature but recalls some gracious memory of Hallam's presence.

The various objects in the surrounding country are enumerated, and present a beautiful rural picture to the mind; and he says,

"But each has pleased a kindred eye, And each reflects a kindlier day; And, leaving these, to pass away, I think once more he seems to die."

To take leave of them is to renew the more bitter separation.

In recent editions this poem commences "I climb the hill," instead of "I wake, I rise."

CI.

A sad reflection comes over him at the thought of bidding farewell to Somersby.

Unwatched and unloved will the flowers in the garden bloom with their fragrance, although the family be gone: and the trees will put forth, and afterwards shed their foliage. The rose-carnation, too, will

"feed With summer-spice the humming air,"

in which the bees are busy.

Uncared for, the brook will babble

"At noon, or when the lesser wain[72] Is twisting round the polar star;"--

also when the sailing moon's reflection in the water becomes broken into silver arrows.[73]

All this will go on, until garden and wild become familiar to the succeeding stranger:

"And year by year our memory fades From all the circle of the hills."

Future generations will nevertheless visit Somersby, with something of the reverence that still attracts the stranger to Stratford-on-Avon.

CII.

"We leave the well-beloved place Where first we gazed upon the sky."

The mother, and the members of her family, quit what had been the Rectory, and seek a new home.

But, "ere we go," the Poet walks in the garden, and seems to be in the company of two spirits, who

"Contend for loving masterdom."

They do not represent persons, but the place with different associations. _The first is the love of the native place; the second, the same love enhanced by the memory of the friend._

The former pleads

"here thy boyhood sung Long since its matin song."

The rival affection urges

"Yea, but here Thy feet have stray'd in after hours With thy lost friend among the bowers, And this hath made them trebly dear."

Through half the day each one prefers a separate appeal by endearing circumstance; but the contest affords no superiority to either; and, as the Poet turns away from the illusion,

"They mix in one another's arms To one pure image of regret."

This picture is very beautiful.

CIII.

A dream is described,

"Which left my after-morn content;"

it imparted comfort.

The Poet seemed to be in a hall, where maidens were singing before a veiled statue--

"known to me, The shape of him I loved."

A dove flies in and summons him to the sea, where, together with his female companions, he enters a boat. As the boat glides away with them, they all seem to expand into greater size and strength; and a vast ship meets them, on the deck of which, in giant proportions, stands "the man we loved."

The maidens weep, as they fear being left behind; but all enter the ship, and

"We steer'd her toward a crimson cloud That land-like slept along the deep."

The teaching is allegorical of the voyage, and of those on board, and we may take this interpretation: _I rather believe the maidens are the Muses, Arts, &c. Everything that made Life beautiful here, we may hope may pass on with us beyond the grave._

The description somewhat reminds one of the passage of king Arthur to the island of Avilion.

CIV.

Christmastide again; and he hears the bells from

"A single church below the hill;"

this is at the place to which the family had moved, and the church is _Waltham Abbey church_. It is a fresh and strange locality, and the bells sound like strangers' voices, recalling nothing of his previous life; no memory can stray in the surrounding scenery;

"But all is new unhallow'd ground."

The Poet's mother lived for several years with her sister, Miss Fytche, in Well Walk, Hampstead; but this new home was at _High Beach, Epping Forest_.

CV.[74]

It is Christmas Eve, but the holly outside their new home shall stand ungathered. He deprecates repeating their old observances of this season in a new place. He thinks of his father's grave "under other snows" than those he looks on; and how the violet will blow there, "but we are gone."

What was done in the old home cannot be repeated in the new habitation,

"For change of place, like growth of time, Has broke the bond of dying use."[75]

He would have this Christmas Eve kept with reverent solemnity: no joyous forms retained from which the spirit has gone; no music, dance, or motion,

"save alone What lightens in the lucid East Of rising worlds by yonder wood."

This _refers to the scintillation of the stars rising_. Let these run out their

"measured arcs, and lead The closing cycle rich in good;"

bringing Christ's second advent.

CVI.

The old year is rung out by "wild bells to the wild sky;" and he would have these ring out all abuses and evils, and ring in all good, and the various blessings which he enumerates--

"Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace,"

the millennium; and last of all,

"Ring in the Christ that is to be;"

God Himself again upon earth.

CVII.

"It is the day when he was born,"

the anniversary of Hallam's birth, which took place in Bedford Place, London, on 1st February, 1811.

One may suppose this Poem to have been written at night, because the description is of

"A bitter day that early sank Behind a purple frosty bank Of vapour, leaving night forlorn."

Indeed, the time is determined by the poetry, for "yon hard crescent" shows that the moon was up when he was writing.

Ice making "daggers at the sharpen'd eaves" is a common sight. Such icicles may be sometimes seen a yard long, pendent from any eave or ledge.

"Brakes" means _bushes_; "grides" may mean "grates;" and "iron horns" must be the dry hard forked boughs; but how distinguished from the "leafless ribs" of the wood, unless as descriptive of the forms of different trees in the wood, is difficult to understand.

"The drifts that pass To darken on the rolling brine That breaks the coast"

must allude to drifts of snow, which falling into water, immediately blacken before they dissolve.

"Bring in great logs and let them lie."

This birthday shall no more be kept as a day of mourning, but shall be joyously observed,

"with festal cheer, With books and music, surely we Will drink to him whate'er he be, And sing the songs he loved to hear."[76]

CVIII.

A noble resolution seems to be now formed, not to become morbid and misanthropic; he will not "stiffen into stone:"[77] and this feeling appears to sustain and animate the Poet throughout the remainder of his loving tribute.

He admits that "barren faith and vacant yearning" are profitless; although they may carry him in thought to the highest height of heaven, or to the deepest depth of Death. And this being so, his upward glance only reveals

"Mine own phantom chanting hymns;"

or, gazing below, he sees

"The reflex of a human face."

His lost friend being, therefore, everywhere represented, he will try to extract wisdom from the sorrow which he cannot exclude; though this be not such wisdom as sleeps with Hallam.

"'Tis held that sorrow makes us wise"

is repeated in P. cxiii., 1.

CIX.

Hallam's character and accomplishments are recited. Richness of conversation, much imported from an intellectual home; with critical powers over all poetry. Keen and rapid thought displayed in logical argument. Delighting in what is good, but not ascetic, and pure in life. Loving freedom, but without

"The blind hysterics of the Celt,"[78]

and uniting manliness with female grace, which made him such a favourite with children.

If the survivor, who had seen and admired all these qualities, had not allowed such wisdom to make him wise, then shame be on him!

CX.

He recalls their former Cambridge discussions; and how Hallam's powers of conversation drew out

"The men of rathe and riper years;"

both the young and older. He gave confidence to the timid, the true-hearted held to him, and the deceitful were exposed,

"While I, thy dearest,[79] sat apart"

watching these triumphs, and enjoying them as my own; and though not possessing the tact, and art, and sweetness, and skill, yet I seemed to share in them, from the love and admiration which they inspired.

"And, born of love, the vague desire That spurs an imitative will,"

rose in me, and made me wish to do likewise.

CXI.

"The churl in spirit" may be found in all ranks of society. Even the king, holding the golden ball of state, may be "at heart a clown."

The "coltish nature" will break out through all the disguises of fashion: but in Hallam

"God and nature met in light, And thus he bore without abuse The grand old name of gentleman,[80] Defamed by every charlatan, And soil'd with all ignoble use."

CXII.

"High wisdom," which judges _ex cathedra_, will condemn him for preferring "glorious insufficiencies" to "narrower perfectness."

He esteems high purposes after what is unattained, as exhibited in Hallam's shortened life, more than a complete fulfilment of lesser duties by the "lords of doom," who rule in our social system, and are _those that have free will, but less intellect_.

His friend was "some novel power," which

"Sprang up for ever at a touch, And hope could never hope too much, In watching thee from hour to hour."

CXIII.

He persistently dwells on Hallam's capabilities. Sorrow may teach wisdom; but how much more sleeps with him, who would not only have guided the survivor, but served all public ends.

He thinks his friend might have become a leading statesman of the day--a pilot to weather the storm, when the greatest social agonies prevailed.

CXIV.

"Who loves not Knowledge"? He would have it pursued to its utmost limits; but in the keen searchings of the scientific there is this danger, that conclusions are apt to be accepted before they have been proved.

When "cut from love and faith," Science is no more than "some wild Pallas from the brain of Demons"--like Minerva, who sprang all armed and full-grown from the brain of Jupiter.

Science, too often,

"leaps into the future chance, Submitting all things to desire. Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain"--

and therefore needing caution and restraint.

If separated from love and faith, she bursts

"All barriers in her onward race For power."

Science is "second, not the first,"

"For she is earthly of the mind, But Wisdom heavenly of the soul."

He would have the world wise and modest,

"like thee, Who grewest not alone in power And knowledge, but by year and hour In reverence and in charity."

It may be remarked that, here and elsewhere, the Poet makes a distinction betwixt mind and soul: the former acquiring knowledge which

"is of things we see;"

the latter by faith,

"Believing where we cannot prove;"

even those things which St. Paul says "are not seen and are eternal."

CXV.

Spring is described, with its sprouting hedges and blowing violets. The whole landscape changes in colour, with the warmer weather;

"And drown'd in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song."[81]

Who has not heard the lark, after it has become invisible in the heavens?

The migratory "birds that change their sky"[82] return and build their nests;

"and my regret Becomes an April violet, And buds and blossoms like the rest."

He is cheered by the opening season.

CXVI.

Is it regret for buried time--grief for the friend whom he has lost--which makes him feel so tender and susceptible of the influences of Spring? Not wholly so: for "life re-orient out of dust," the revival of vegetation, raises his spirits, and "heartens," strengthens his trust in that Power which made the earth beautiful.

Nor is it altogether "regret" that he feels; for the face and the voice of his friend come back; and the voice speaks of me and mine--his sister as well as himself--and he is conscious of

"Less yearning for the friendship fled, Than some strong bond which is to be"--

reunion hereafter.

CXVII.

"O days and hours"--he declares their work to be the accumulation of joy they will bring to that future meeting, from which at present they are detaining him.

"Delight a hundredfold" will accrue from this postponement--the contribution of every grain of sand through the hourglass, of "every span of shade" across the sundial, of every click in the watch, and each day's sun.

CXVIII.

A friend observes that this Poem is a remarkable exposition of the nebular hypothesis, as sanctioned by geologists.

Look at "this work of Time," its slow growth and effect; and don't believe that "human love and truth" dissolve and pass away, as being no more than "dying Nature's earth and lime," insensible and finite.

Rather trust that

"the dead Are breathers of an ampler day For ever nobler ends."

If this solid earth came from elements dissolved by "fluent heat," and man was the last result; then he, who is now enduring fears and sorrows and the battering "shocks of doom," typifies "this work of time" on natural objects; for he must be, as they have been, in process of being moulded for a higher state. He is moving upward, "working out the beast," and letting "the ape and tiger die," while in his present probationary condition.

CXIX.

The work of resignation in the mourner's heart is here acknowledged. In Poem vii. he represents himself as standing, "like a guilty thing," at the door of the London house where they used to meet, and he was then all sad and comfortless.

But now he revisits the spot, at the same early hour, and his feelings have changed and have become reconciled and hopeful. He smells "the meadow in the street," the waggon loads of hay and clover coming in from the country.

Wimpole Street is here again described, with morning breaking over the housetops:

"I see Betwixt the black fronts long-withdrawn A light blue lane of early dawn."

It was at No. 67 in this street that Mr. Hallam lived, and wrote his great historical works; and his son Arthur used to say, "We are always to be found at sixes and sevens."

All is now welcome:

"I think of early days and thee, And bless thee, for thy lips are bland, And bright the friendship of thine eye; And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh I take the pressure of thine hand."

CXX.

He exults in the victory of a higher faith. We are not "magnetic mockeries"--simply material "brain"--"casts in clay"--to perish as soon as the galvanic battery ceases to act,

"not in vain, Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death."

Let Science prove the contrary, even that we only exist for this life, and I won't stay here. And Science herself would then be valueless, since she had only taught us our nothingness.

Let "the wiser man" of the future

"up from childhood shape His action like the greater ape, But I was born to other things."

This is spoken ironically, and is a strong protest against materialism, but _not against evolution_.[83] Nevertheless, the gorilla is not our grandfather!

CXXI.

"Sad Hesper," the evening star, only rises to "follow the buried sun;" but, in the "dim and dimmer" light of late afternoon, it watches the conclusion of man's daily labours. The teams are loosened from the waggons, "the boat is drawn upon the shore," the house door is closed, "and life is darken'd in the brain" of the sleeper.

Phosphor, the morning star, sees the renewal of life; the bird with its early song, the rising sun, the market boat again floating and voices calling to it from the shore, the village blacksmith with his clinking hammer, and the team again harnessed and at work.

Hesper and Phosphor are simply the one planet Venus, which according to its position with the sun, becomes the morning or evening star.

So the Poet sings,

"Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name For what is one, the first, the last, Thou, like my present and my past, Thy place is changed; thou art the same."

Hallam has only been removed: he is not altered into something else--"not lost, but gone before." No--_the writer is rather referring to himself_: and as his own "present" and "past" are so different; the latter, with a bright prospect, may be likened to the morning star, Phosphor; whilst the former, full of gloom and sorrow, is represented by Hesper, the star of evening, and precursor of black night.

CXXII.

He seems to recall some former occasion, when in wild enquiry he had dared to question the great secrets of life and death--now and hereafter.

This may not refer to any special time, but to the general uneasiness of his feelings before submission had been attained;[84] and he now says,

"If thou wert with me, and the grave Divide us not, be with me now."

Let me again, "like an inconsiderate boy," "slip the thoughts of life and death," give free rein to a speculative imagination; for now, in a higher and better frame of mind, it will be that "every thought breaks out a rose"--a blossom of truth.

CXXIII.

The great changes on the earth's surface are bewildering, and hint that "nothing stands" and endures.

Where the tree now grows, and the long street is full of crowd and noise, there was once

"The stillness of the central sea."

The very hills and solid lands are no more than shadows, or

"Like clouds that shape themselves and go."

But our parting is not for ever,

"For tho' my lips may breathe adieu, I cannot think the thing farewell."[85]

I am sure that we shall meet again.

CXXIV.

In this Poem we have a profound acknowledgment of the revealed Godhead in its triune manifestations, though not expressed in ecclesiastical formula:

"Our dearest faith; our ghastliest doubt; He, They, One, All; within, without; The Power in darkness whom we guess."

This Power lives in our hearts. Eye hath not seen Him, nor is He to be found "in world or sun," or by dissection of what has lived, or by process of reasoning.

If ever his own faith faltered, and a voice said, "believe no more," the reproving witness was within himself.

"A warmth within the breast would melt The freezing reason's colder part, And like a man in wrath the heart Stood up and answer'd, I have felt."[86]

Still he was

"as a child that cries, But, crying, knows his father near."[87]

His own heart, which is the home of faith, testified to Divine truth, which "no man understands," but he accepts it as the one solution of what exists.

CXXV.

He admits that some "bitter notes" have sounded from his harp. But though his tongue may at times have seemed to speak with contradiction, Hope was nevertheless still alive to better things.

And if Love "play'd with gracious lies," suggested difficulties, this Love had only dared to do so

"Because he felt so fixed in truth."

Love sustained him when his song was "full of care;" and Love's signet marked it whenever it was "sweet and strong;" and he implores Love to abide with him till he joins his friend "on the mystic deeps," when his own electric brain no longer "keeps a thousand pulses dancing."

CXXVI.

Here is a noble testimony to the comfort and assurance which Love, when made our "Lord and King," can impart.

In the Poet's estimation, Love is the Charity of St. Paul; believing, hoping, enduring, and never failing. Love brings us tidings of the dead. Love guards us in life, even in sleep. Through his influence we hear, as from a sentinel,

"Who moves about from place to place, And whispers to the worlds of space, In the deep night, that all is well."

CXXVII.

Yes, "all is well, tho' faith and form be sunder'd" in temporary crises; that is, one must believe in ultimate good, even when the immediate circumstances are most adverse. The storm will rage below on earth, before truth and justice can be firmly established.

"The red fool-fury of the Seine"

does not specially refer to the Revolution of 1848, as it was _probably written long before_ '48.

Such convulsions will cease at last; there is calm beyond; and, even whilst they last,

"thou, dear spirit, happy star, O'erlook'st the tumult from afar, And smilest, knowing all is well."

CXXVIII.

The Love, which became stronger in himself, after encountering Death at the departure of Hallam,

"Is comrade to the lesser faith That sees the course of human things."

This "lesser faith" attends to the events of time, and is not overborne by present confusions, but reaches, sustained by Love, to a last happy consummation.

If all that the "wild Hours" of Time had to do was to repeat the past, bring about useless wars, "fool the crowd with glorious lies," cleave religion into sects, disguise language, change governments, cramp learning, patch afresh what is antique and worn--if these results were all that could be effected, then would my scorn be well deserved. But

"I see in part That all, as in some piece of art, Is toil co-operant to an end;"

that all things are working together for final good.

CXXIX.

A more touching and tender address to the dead was never uttered than this Poem expresses, a more pure and ennobling affection was never described. Sorrow is lost in the more exalted sentiment of their certain reunion, and in the strength derived from a consciousness of the worthiness of their past friendship.

"Strange friend, past, present, and to be, Loved deeplier, darklier understood; Behold, I dream a dream of good, And mingle all the world with thee."

CXXX.

Each had so participated in the other's life: they had looked on Nature with such kindred eyes, having one mind and taste; that the survivor both sees and hears his former companion in all objects and sounds which present themselves.

Everything reminds him of Hallam; but