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