The dreams are over, and he addresses the sad anniversary of Hallam's death, which took place on the 15th of September, 1833--the day having just dawned with stormy accompaniments. The poplar tree[47] is blown white, through having its leaves reversed by the wind; and the window-pane streams with rain. It is a day on which his "crown'd estate," his life's happiness, began to fail; and that the rose is weighed down by rain, and the daisy closes her "crimson fringes,"[48] are effects quite in harmony with his feelings.
But, if the day had opened with no wind, and the sun had chequered the hill sides with light and shadow; it would still have looked
It is a disastrous "day, mark'd as with some hideous crime," he can therefore only say, "hide thy shame beneath the ground," in sunset, when the recalling anniversary will be past.
We are reminded of Job's imprecation on his own birthday--"Let the day perish on which I was born."
He says there are so many worlds, and so much to be done in them--since so little has already been accomplished--that he thinks Hallam may have been needed elsewhere. The earthly career of usefulness and distinction is over; but he finds no fault, piously submitting--
all is overruled. We pass away, and what survives of human deeds?
The hollow ghost of Hallam's reputation may wholly fade here; but his exulting soul carries away unexpended powers for higher purposes,
"And self-infolds the large results Of force that would have forged a name,"
This Poem will certainly not bear a literal interpretation. We cannot suppose that the writer ever looked on the face of his friend after death; for nearly four months had elapsed before the body reached England.
What he saw, therefore, was with "the mind's eye." And as Death often brings out a likeness,[49] which was never before recognized; so, contemplating the character of the departed, he sees
"Thy likeness to the wise below, Thy kindred with the great of old."
I can perceive worth in thee equal to theirs!
The last stanza is mystical; the darkness of death hides much; what he can see he cannot or will not explain: enough, that thou hast made even this darkness of death beautiful by thy presence.
The Poet leaves the praises of his friend unexpressed, because no words can duly convey them; and the greatness thus unrecorded must be guessed, by the measure of the survivor's grief.