Tis held that sorrow makes us wise;
Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee
Which not alone had guided me,
But served the seasons that may rise;

For can I doubt, who knew thee keen
In intellect, with force and skill
To strive, to fashion, to fulfil—
I doubt not what thou wouldst have been:

A life in civic action warm,
A soul on highest mission sent,
A potent voice of Parliament,
A pillar steadfast in the storm,

Should licensed boldness gather force,
Becoming, when the time has birth,
A lever to uplift the earth
And roll it in another course,

With thousand shocks that come and go,
With agonies, with energies,
With overthrowings, and with cries
And undulations to and fro.


Questions arise: What civic action? What sort of highest mission? In what storm a pillar? The “voice of parliament” is at least specific. If one compares This poem with Johnson’s On the Death of Dr. Lovett one can see how Tennyson’s well meant generalities are outgunned by Johnson’ specifics:

Condemned to Hope’s delusive mine, 

    As on we toil from day to day, 

By sudden blasts, or slow decline, 

    Our social comforts drop away. 


Well tried through many a varying year, 

    See Levet to the grave descend; 

Officious, innocent, sincere, 

    Of every friendless name the friend. 


Yet still he fills Affection’s eye, 

    Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind; 

Nor, lettered Arrogance, deny 

    Thy praise to merit unrefined. 


When fainting Nature called for aid, 

    And hovering Death prepared the blow, 

His vigorous remedy displayed 

    The power of art without the show. 


In Misery’s darkest cavern known, 

    His useful care was ever nigh, 

Where hopeless Anguish poured his groan, 

    And lonely Want retired to die. 


No summons mocked by chill delay, 

    No petty gain disdained by pride, 

The modest wants of every day 

    The toil of every day supplied. 


His virtues walked their narrow round, 

    Nor made a pause, nor left a void; 

And sure the Eternal Master found 

    The single talent well employed. 


The busy day, the peaceful night, 

    Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; 

His frame was firm, his powers were bright, 

    Though now his eightieth year was nigh. 


Then with no throbbing fiery pain, 

    No cold gradations of decay, 

Death broke at once the vital chain, 

And freed his soul the nearest way.

This is of course a very brief masterpiece, compared with In Memoriam, but all of Tennyson’s high praises are not worth “No summons mocked by chill delay” We think we know Dr. Levett but we do not know Hallam.

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