Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm;
And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands;
Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf
In cluster; then a moulderd church; and higher
A long street climbs to one tall-towerd mill;
And high in heaven behind it a gray down
With Danish barrows; and a hazelwood,
By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes
Green in a cuplike hollow of the down.
Here on this beach a hundred years ago,
Three children of three houses, Annie Lee,
The prettiest little damsel in the port,
And Philip Ray the millers only son,
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailors lad
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, playd
Among the waste and lumber of the shore,
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets,
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn;
And built their castles of dissolving sand
To watch them overflowd, or following up
And flying the white breaker, daily left
The little footprint daily washd away.
A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff:
In this the children playd at keeping house.
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next,
While Annie still was mistress; but at times
Enoch would hold possession for a week:
This is my house and this my little wife.
Mine too said Philip turn and turn about:
When, if they quarrelld, Enoch stronger-made
Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears,
Shriek out I hate you, Enoch, and at this
The little wife would weep for company,
And pray them not to quarrel for her sake,
And say she would he little wife to both.
But when the dawn of rosy childhood past,
And the new warmth of lifes ascending sun
Was felt by either, either fixt his heart
On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love,
But Philip loved in silence; and the girl
Seemd kinder unto Philip than to him;
But she loved Enoch; tho she knew it not,
And would if askd deny it. Enoch set
A purpose evermore before his eyes,
To hoard all savings to the uttermost,
To purchase his own boat, and make a home
For Annie: and so prosperd that at last
A luckier or a bolder fisherman,
A carefuller in peril, did not breathe
For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast
Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year
On board a merchantman, and made himself
Full sailor; and he thrice had pluckd a life
From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas:
And all men lookd upon him favourably:
And ere he touchd his one-and-twentieth May
He purchased his own boat, and made a home
For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway up
The narrow street that clamberd toward the mill.
Then, on a golden autumn eventide,
The younger people making holiday,
With bag and sack and basket, great and small,
Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stayd
(His father lying sick and needing him)
An hour behind; but as he climbd the hill,
Just where the prone edge of the wood began
To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair,
Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand,
His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face
All-kindled by a still and sacred fire,
That burnd as on an altar. Philip lookd,
And in their eyes and faces read his doom;
Then, as their faces drew together, groand,
And slipt aside, and like a wounded life
Crept down into the hollows of the wood;
There, while the rest were loud in merry-making,
Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past
Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart.
So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells,
And merrily ran the years, seven happy years,
Seven happy years of health and competence,
And mutual love and honourable toil;
With children; first a daughter. In him woke,
With his first babes first cry, the noble wish
To save all earnings to the uttermost,
And give his child a better bringing-up
Than his had been, or hers; a wish renewd,
When two years after came a boy to be
The rosy idol of her solitudes,
While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas,
Or often journeying landward; for in truth
Enochs white horse, and Enochs ocean-spoil
In ocean-smelling osier, and his face,
Rough-reddend with a thousand winter gales,
Not only to the market-cross were known,
But in the leafy lanes behind the down,
Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp,
And peacock-yewtree of the lonely Hall,
Whose Friday fare was Enochs ministering.
Then came a change, as all things human change.
Ten miles to northward of the narrow port
Opend a larger haven: thither used
Enoch at times to go by land or sea;
And once when there, and clambering on a mast
In harbour, by mischance he slipt and fell:
A limb was broken when they lifted him;
And while he lay recovering there, his wife
Bore him another son, a sickly one:
Another hand crept too across his trade
Taking her bread and theirs: and on him fell,
Altho a grave and staid God-fearing man,
Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom.
He seemd, as in a nightmare of the night,
To see his children leading evermore
Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth,
And her, he loved, a beggar: then he prayd
Save them from this, whatever comes to me.
And while he prayd, the master of that ship
Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance,
Came, for he knew the man and valued him,
Reporting of his vessel China-bound,
And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go?
There yet were many weeks before she saild,
Saild from this port. Would Enoch have the place?
And Enoch all at once assented to it,
Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer.
So now that shadow of mischance appeard
No graver than as when some little cloud
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun,
And isles a light in the offing: yet the wife
When he was gonethe childrenwhat to do?
Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans;
To sell the boatand yet he loved her well
How many a rough sea had he weatherd in her!
He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse
And yet to sell herthen with what she brought
Buy goods and storesset Annie forth in trade
With all that seamen needed or their wives
So might she keep the house while he was gone.
Should he not trade himself out yonder? go
This voyage more than once? yea twice or thrice
As oft as neededlast, returning rich,
Become the master of a larger craft,
With fuller profits lead an easier life,
Have all his pretty young ones educated,
And pass his days in peace among his own.
Thus Enoch in his heart determined all:
Then moving homeward came on Annie pale,
Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born.
Forward she started with a happy cry,
And laid the feeble infant in his arms;
Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs,
Appraised his weight and fondled father-like,
But had no heart to break his purposes
To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke.
Then first since Enochs golden ring had girt
Her finger, Annie fought against his will:
Yet not with brawling opposition she,
But manifold entreaties, many a tear,
Many a sad kiss by day by night renewd
(Sure that all evil would come out of it)
Besought him, supplicating, if he cared
For her or his dear children, not to go.
He not for his own self caring but her,
Her and her children, let her plead in vain;
So grieving held his will, and bore it thro.
For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend,
Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand
To fit their little streetward sitting-room
With shelf and corner for the goods and stores.
So all day long till Enochs last at home,
Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe,
Auger and saw, while Annie seemd to hear
Her own death-scaffold raising, shrilld and rang,
Till this was ended, and his careful hand,
The space was narrow,having orderd all
Almost as neat and close as Nature packs
Her blossom or her seedling, paused; and he,
Who needs would work for Annie to the last,
Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn.
And Enoch faced this morning of farewell
Brightly and boldly. All his Annies fears,
Save, as his Annies, were a laughter to him.
Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man
Bowd himself down, and in that mystery
Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God,
Prayd for a blessing on his wife and babes
Whatever came to him: and then he said
Annie, this voyage by the grace of God
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us.
Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me,
For Ill be back, my girl, before you know it.
Then lightly rocking babys cradle and he,
This pretty, puny, weakly little one,
Nayfor I love him all the better for it
God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees
And I will tell him tales of foreign parts,
And make him merry, when I come home again.
Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I go.
Him running on thus hopefully she heard,
And almost hoped herself; but when he turnd
The current of his talk to graver things
In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing
On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard,
Heard and not heard him; as the village girl,
Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring,
Musing on him that used to fill it for her,
Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow.
At length she spoke O Enoch, you are wise;
And yet for all your wisdom well know I
That I shall look upon your face no more.
Well then, said Enoch, I shall look on yours.
Annie, the ship I sail in passes here
(He named the day) get you a seamans glass,
Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears.
But when the last of those last moments came,
Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted,
Look to the babes, and till I come again
Keep everything shipshape, for I must go.
And fear no more for me; or if you fear
Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.
Is He not yonder in those uttermost
Parts of the morning? if I flee to these
Can I go from Him? and the sea is His,
The sea is His: He made it.
Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife,
And kissd his wonder-stricken little ones;
But for the third, the sickly one, who slept
After a night of feverous wakefulness,
When Annie would have raised him Enoch said
Wake him not; let him sleep; how should the child
Remember this? and kissd him in his cot.
But Annie from her babys forehead clipt
A tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept
Thro all his future; but now hastily caught
His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way.
She when the day, that Enoch mentiond, came,
Borrowd a glass, but all in vain: perhaps
She could not fix the glass to suit her eye;
Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous;
She saw him not: and while he stood on deck
Waving, the moment and the vessel past.
Evn to the last dip of the vanishing sail
She watchd it, and departed weeping for him;
Then, tho she mournd his absence as his grave,
Set her sad will no less to chime with his,
But throve not in her trade, not being bred
To barter, nor compensating the want
By shrewdness, neither capable of lies,
Nor asking overmuch and taking less,
And still foreboding what would Enoch say?
For more than once, in days of difficulty
And pressure, had she sold her wares for less
Than what she gave in buying what she sold:
She faild and saddend knowing it; and thus,
Expectant of that news which never came,
Gaind for her own a scanty sustenance,
And lived a life of silent melancholy.
Now the third child was sickly-born and grew
Yet sicklier, tho the mother cared for it
With all a mothers care: nevertheless,
Whether her business often calld her from it,
Or thro the want of what it needed most,
Or means to pay the voice who best could tell
What most it neededhowsoeer it was,
After a lingering,ere she was aware,
Like the caged bird escaping suddenly,
The little innocent soul flitted away.
In that same week when Annie buried it,
Philips true heart, which hungerd for her peace
(Since Enoch left he had not lookd upon her),
Smote him, as having kept aloof so long.
Surely, said Philip, I may see her now,
May be some little comfort; therefore went,
Past thro the solitary room in front,
Paused for a moment at an inner door,
Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening,
Enterd; but Annie, seated with her grief,
Fresh from the burial of her little one,
Cared not to look on any human face,
But turnd her own toward the wall and wept.
Then Philip standing up said falteringly
Annie, I came to ask a favour of you.
He spoke; the passion in her moand reply
Favour from one so sad and so forlorn
As I am! half abashd him; yet unaskd,
His bashfulness and tenderness at war,
He set himself beside her, saying to her:
I came to speak to you of what he wishd,
Enoch, your husband: I have ever said
You chose the best among usa strong man:
For where he fixt his heart he set his hand
To do the thing he willd, and bore it thro.
And wherefore did he go this weary way,
And leave you lonely? not to see the world
For pleasure?nay, but for the wherewithal
To give his babes a better bringing-up
Than his had been, or yours: that was his wish.
And if he come again, vext will he be
To find the precious morning hours were lost.
And it would vex him even in his grave,
If he could know his babes were running wild
Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now
Have we not known each other all our lives?
I do beseech you by the love you bear
Him and his children not to say me nay
For, if you will, when Enoch comes again
Why then he shall repay meif you will,
Anniefor I am rich and well-to-do.
Now let me put the boy and girl to school:
This is the favour that I came to ask.
Then Annie with her brows against the wall
Answerd I cannot look you in the face;
I seem so foolish and so broken down.
When you came in my sorrow broke me down;
And now I think your kindness breaks me down;
But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me:
He will repay you: money can be repaid;
Not kindness such as yours.
And Philip askd
Then you will let me, Annie?
There she turnd,
She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him,
And dwelt a moment on his kindly face,
Then calling down a blessing on his head
Caught at his hand, and wrung it passionately,
And past into the little garth beyond.
So lifted up in spirit he moved away.
Then Philip put the boy and girl to school,
And bought them needful books, and everyway,
Like one who does his duty by his own,
Made himself theirs; and tho for Annies sake,
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port,
He oft denied his heart his dearest wish,
And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent
Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit,
The late and early roses from his wall,
Or conies from the down, and now and then,
With some pretext of fineness in the meal
To save the offence of charitable, flour
From his tall mill that whistled on the waste.
But Philip did not fathom Annies mind:
Scarce could the woman when he came upon her,
Out of full heart and boundless gratitude
Light on a broken word to thank him with.
But Philip was her childrens all-in-all;
From distant corners of the street they ran
To greet his hearty welcome heartily;
Lords of his house and of his mill were they;
Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs
Or pleasures, hung upon him, playd with him
And calld him Father Philip. Philip gaind
As Enoch lost; for Enoch seemd to them
Uncertain as a vision or a dream,
Faint as a figure seen in early dawn
Down at the far end of an avenue,
Going we know not where: and so ten years,
Since Enoch left his hearth and native land,
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came.
It chanced one evening Annies children longd
To go with others, nutting to the wood,
And Annie would go with them; then they beggd
For Father Philip (as they calld him) too:
Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust,
Blanchd with his mill, they found; and saying to him
Come with us Father Philip he denied;
But when the children pluckd at him to go,
He laughd, and yielded readily to their wish,
For was not Annie with them? and they went.
But after scaling half the weary down,
Just where the prone edge of the wood began
To feather toward the hollow, all her force
Faild her; and sighing, Let me rest she said:
So Philip rested with her well-content;
While all the younger ones with jubilant cries
Broke from their elders, and tumultuously
Down thro the whitening hazels made a plunge
To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke
The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away
Their tawny clusters, crying to each other
And calling, here and there, about the wood.
But Philip sitting at her side forgot
Her presence, and rememberd one dark hour
Here in this wood, when like a wounded life
He crept into the shadow: at last he said,
Lifting his honest forehead, Listen, Annie,
How merry they are down yonder in the wood.
Tired, Annie? for she did not speak a word.
Tired? but her face had falln upon her hands;
At which, as with a kind of anger in him,
The ship was lost, he said, the ship was lost!
No more of that! why should you kill yourself
And make them orphans quite? And Annie said
I thought not of it: butI know not why
Their voices make me feel so solitary.
Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke.
Annie, there is a thing upon my mind,
And it has been upon my mind so long,
That tho I know not when it first came there,
I know that it will out at last. O Annie,
It is beyond all hope, against all chance,
That he who left you ten long years ago
Should still be living; well thenlet me speak:
I grieve to see you poor and wanting help:
I cannot help you as I wish to do
Unlessthey say that women are so quick
Perhaps you know what I would have you know
I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove
A father to your children: I do think
They love me as a father: I am sure
That I love them as if they were mine own;
And I believe, if you were fast my wife,
That after all these sad uncertain years,
We might be still as happy as God grants
To any of his creatures. Think upon it:
For I am well-to-dono kin, no care,
No burthen, save my care for you and yours:
And we have known each other all our lives,
And I have loved you longer than you know.
Then answerd Annie; tenderly she spoke:
You have been as Gods good angel in our house.
God bless you for it, God reward you for it,
Philip, with something happier than myself.
Can one love twice? can you be ever loved
As Enoch was? what is it that you ask?
I am content he answerd to be loved
A little after Enoch. O she cried,
Scared as it were, dear Philip, wait a while:
If Enoch comesbut Enoch will not come
Yet wait a year, a year is not so long:
Surely I shall be wiser in a year:
O wait a little! Philip sadly said
Annie, as I have waited all my life
I well may wait a little. Nay she cried
I am bound: you have my promisein a year:
Will you not bide your year as I bide mine?
And Philip answerd I will bide my year.
Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day
Pass from the Danish barrow overhead;
Then fearing night and chill for Annie, rose
And sent his voice beneath him thro the wood.
Up came the children laden with their spoil;
Then all descended to the port, and there
At Annies door he paused and gave his hand,
Saying gently Annie, when I spoke to you,
That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong,
I am always bound to you, but you are free.
Then Annie weeping answerd I am bound.
She spoke; and in one moment as it were,
While yet she went about her household ways,
Evn as she dwelt upon his latest words,
That he had loved her longer than she knew,
That autumn into autumn flashd again,
And there he stood once more before her face,
Claiming her promise. Is it a year? she askd.
Yes, if the nuts he said be ripe again:
Come out and see. But sheshe put him off
So much to look tosuch a changea month
Give her a monthshe knew that she was bound
A monthno more. Then Philip with his eyes
Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice
Shaking a little like a drunkards hand,
Take your own time, Annie, take your own time.
And Annie could have wept for pity of him;
And yet she held him on delayingly
With many a scarce-believable excuse,
Trying his truth and his long-sufferance,
Till half-another year had slipt away.
By this the lazy gossips of the port,
Abhorrent of a calculation crost,
Began to chafe as at a personal wrong.
Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her;
Some that she but held off to draw him on;
And others laughd at her and Philip too,
As simple folk that knew not their own minds,
And one, in whom all evil fancies clung
Like serpent eggs together, laughingly
Would hint at worse in either. Her own son
Was silent, tho he often lookd his wish;
But evermore the daughter prest upon her
To wed the man so dear to all of them
And lift the household out of poverty;
And Philips rosy face contracting grew
Careworn and wan; and all these things fell on her
Sharp as reproach.
At last one night it chanced
That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly
Prayd for a sign my Enoch is he gone?
Then compassd round by the blind wall of night
Brookd not the expectant terror of her heart,
Started from bed, and struck herself a light,
Then desperately seized the holy Book,
Suddenly set it wide to find a sign,
Suddenly put her finger on the text,
Under the palm-tree. That was nothing to her:
No meaning there: she closed the Book and slept:
When lo! her Enoch sitting on a height,
Under a palm-tree, over him the Sun:
He is gone, she thought, he is happy, he is singing
Hosanna in the highest: yonder shines
The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms
Whereof the happy people strowing cried
Hosanna in the highest! Here she woke,
Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him
There is no reason why we should not wed.
Then for Gods sake, he answerd, both our sakes,
So you will wed me, let it be at once.
So these were wed and merrily rang the bells,
Merrily rang the bells and they were wed.
But never merrily beat Annies heart.
A footstep seemd to fall beside her path,
She knew not whence; a whisper on her ear,
She knew not what; nor loved she to be left
Alone at home, nor ventured out alone.
What aild her then, that ere she enterd, often
Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch,
Fearing to enter: Philip thought he knew:
Such doubts and fears were common to her state,
Being with child: but when her child was born,
Then her new child was as herself renewd,
Then the new mother came about her heart,
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all,
And that mysterious instinct wholly died.
And where was Enoch? prosperously saild
The ship Good Fortune, tho at setting forth
The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, shook
And almost overwhelmd her, yet unvext
She slipt across the summer of the world,
Then after a long tumble about the Cape
And frequent interchange of foul and fair,
She passing thro the summer world again,
The breath of heaven came continually
And sent her sweetly by the golden isles,
Till silent in her oriental haven.
There Enoch traded for himself, and bought
Quaint monsters for the market of those times,
A gilded dragon, also, for the babes.
Less lucky her home-voyage: at first indeed
Thro many a fair sea-circle, day by day,
Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figure-head
Stared oer the ripple feathering from her bows:
Then followd calms, and then winds variable,
Then baffling, a long course of them; and last
Storm, such as drove her under moonless heavens
Till hard upon the cry of breakers came
The crash of ruin, and the loss of all
But Enoch and two others. Half the night,
Buoyd upon floating tackle and broken spars,
These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn
Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea.
No want was there of human sustenance,
Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots;
Nor save for pity was it hard to take
The helpless life so wild that it was tame.
There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge
They built, and thatchd with leaves of palm, a hut,
Half hut, half native cavern. So the three,
Set in this Eden of all plenteousness,
Dwelt with etemal summer, ill-content.
For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy,
Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck,
Lay lingering out a five-years death-in-life.
They could not leave him. After he was gone,
The two remaining found a fallen stem;
And Enochs comrade, careless of himself,
Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell
Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone.
In those two deaths he read Gods warning wait.
The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns
And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven,
The slender cocos drooping crown of plumes,
The lightning flash of insect and of bird,
The lustre of the long convolvuluses
That coild around the stately stems, and ran
Evn to the limit of the land, the glows
And glories of the broad belt of the world,
All these he saw; but what he fain had seen
He could not see, the kindly human face,
Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard
The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl,
The league-long roller thundering on the reef,
The moving whisper of huge trees that branchd
And blossomd in the zenith, or the sweep
Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave,
As down the shore he ranged, or all day long
Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge,
A shipwreckd sailor, waiting for a sail:
No sail ftom day to day, but every day
The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts
Among the palms and ferns and precipices;
The blaze upon the waters to the east;
The blaze upon his island overhead;
The blaze upon the waters to the west;
Then the great stars that globed themselves in Heaven,
The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again
The scarlet shafts of sunrisebut no sail.
There often as he watchd or seemd to watch,
So still, the golden lizard on him paused,
A phantom made of many phantoms moved
Before him haunting him, or he himself
Moved haunting people, things and places, known
Far in a darker isle beyond the line;
The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house,
The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes,
The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall,
The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill
November dawns and dewy-glooming downs,
The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves,
And the low moan of leaden-colourd seas.
Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears,
Tho faintly, merrilyfar and far away
He heard the pealing of his parish bells;
Then, tho he knew not wherefore, started up
Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle
Returnd upon him, had not his poor heart
Spoken with That, which being everywhere
Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem all alone,
Surely the man had died of solitude.
Thus over Enochs early-silvering head
The sunny and rainy seasons came and went
Year after year. His hopes to see his own,
And pace the sacred old familiar fields,
Not yet had perishd, when his lonely doom
Came suddenly to an end. Another ship
(She wanted water) blown by baffling winds,
Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course,
Stayd by this isle, not knowing where she lay:
For since the mate had seen at early dawn
Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle
The silent water slipping from the hills,
They sent a crew that landing burst away
In search of stream or fount, and filld the shores
With clamour. Downward from his mountain gorge
Stept the long-haird long-bearded solitary,
Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad,
Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it seemd,
With inarticulate rage, and making signs
They knew not what: and yet he led the way
To where the rivulets of sweet water ran;
And ever as he mingled with the crew,
And heard them talking, his long-bounden tongue
Was loosend, till he made them understand;
Whom, when their casks were filld they took aboard:
And there the tale he utterd brokenly,
Scarce-credited at first but more and more,
Amazed and melted all who listend to it:
And clothes they gave him and free passage home;
But oft he workd among the rest and shook
His isolation from him. None of these
Came from his country, or could answer him,
If questiond, aught of what he cared to know.
And dull the voyage was with long delays,
The vessel scarce sea-worthy; but evermore
His fancy fled before the lazy wind
Returning, till beneath a clouded moon
He like a lover down thro all his blood
Drew in the dewy meadowy morning-breath
Of England, blown across her ghostly wall:
And that same morning officers and men
Levied a kindly tax upon themselves,
Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it:
Then moving up the coast they landed him,
Evn in that harbour whence he saild before.
There Enoch spoke no word to any one,
But homewardhomewhat home? had he a home?
His home, he walkd. Bright was that afternoon,
Sunny but chill; till drawn thro either chasm,
Where either haven opend on the deeps,
Rolld a sea-haze and whelmd the world in gray;
Cut off the length of highway on before,
And left but narrow breadth to left and right
Of witherd holt or tilth or pasturage.
On the nigh-naked tree the robin piped
Disconsolate, and thro the dripping haze
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down:
Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom;
Last, as it seemd, a great mist-blotted light
Flared on him, and he came upon the place.
Then down the long street having slowly stolen,
His heart foreshadowing all calamity,
His eyes upon the stones, he reachd the home
Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes
In those far-off seven happy years were born;
But finding neither light nor murmur there
(A bill of sale gleamd thro the drizzle) crept
Still downward thinking dead or dead to me!
Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went,
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew,
A front of timber-crost antiquity,
So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old,
He thought it must have gone; but he was gone
Who kept it; and his widow Miriam Lane,
With daily-dwindling profits held the house;
A haunt of brawling sea men once, but now
Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men.
There Enoch rested silent many days.
But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous,
Nor let him be, but often breaking in,
Told him, with other annals of the port,
Not knowingEnoch was so brown, so bowd,
So brokenall the story of his house.
His babys death, her growing poverty,
How Philip put her little ones to school,
And kept them in it, his long wooing her,
Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth
Of Philips child: and oer his countenance
No shadow past, nor motion: any one,
Regarding, well had deemd he felt the tale
Less than the teller: only when she closed
Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost
He, shaking his gray head pathetically,
Repeated muttering cast away and lost;
Again in deeper inward whispers lost!
But Enoch yearnd to see her face again;
If I might look on her sweet face again
And know that she is happy. So the thought
Haunted and harassd him, and drove him forth,
At evening when the dull November day
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill.
There he sat down gazing on all below;
There did a thousand memories roll upon him,
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by
The ruddy square of comfortable light,
Far-blazing from the rear of Philips house,
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes
Against it, and beats out his weary life.
For Philips dwelling fronted on the street,
The latest house to landward; but behind,
With one small gate that opend on the waste,
Flourishd a little garden square and walld:
And in it throve an ancient evergreen,
A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk
Of shingle, and a walk divided it:
But Enoch shunnd the middle walk and stole
Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence
That which he better might have shunnd, if griefs
Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw.
For cups and silver on the burnishd board
Sparkled and shone; so genial was the hearth:
And on the right hand of the hearth he saw
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times,
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees;
And oer her second father stoopt a girl,
A later but a loftier Annie Lee,
Fair-haird and tall, and from her lifted hand
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring
To tempt the babe, who reard his creasy arms,
Caught at and ever missd it, and they laughd;
And on the left hand of the hearth he saw
The mother glancing often toward her babe,
But turning now and then to speak with him,
Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong,
And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled.
Now when the dead man come to life beheld
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe
Hers, yet not his, upon the fathers knee,
And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness,
And his own children tall and beautiful,
And him, that other, reigning in his place,
Lord of his rights and of his childrens love,
Then he, tho Miriam Lane had told him all,
Because things seen are mightier than things heard,
Staggerd and shook, holding the branch, and feard
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry,
Which in one moment, like the blast of doom,
Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth.
He therefore turning softly like a thief,
Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot,
And feeling all along the garden-wall,
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found,
Crept to the gate, and opend it, and closed,
As lightly as a sick mans chamber-door,
Behind him, and came out upon the waste.
And there he would have knelt, but that his knees
Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug
His fingers into the wet earth, and prayd.
Too hard to bear! why did they take me thence?
O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou
That didst uphold me on my lonely isle,
Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness
A little longer! aid me, give me strength
Not to tell her, never to let her know.
Help me not to break in upon her peace.
My children too! must I not speak to these?
They know me not. I should betray myself.
Never: No fathers kiss for methe girl
So like her mother, and the boy, my son.
There speech and thought and nature faild a little,
And he lay tranced; but when he rose and paced
Back toward his solitary home again,
All down the long and narrow street he went
Beating it in upon his weary brain,
As tho it were the burthen of a song,
Not to tell her, never to let her know.
He was not all unhappy. His resolve
Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermore
Prayer from a living source within the will,
And beating up thro all the bitter world,
Like fountains of sweet water in the sea,
Kept him a living soul. This millers wife
He said to Miriam that you spoke about,
Has she no fear that her first husband lives?
Ay, ay, poor soul said Miriam, fear enow!
If you could tell her you had seen him dead,
Why, that would be her comfort; and he thought
After the Lord has calld me she shall know,
I wait His time, and Enoch set himself,
Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live.
Almost to all things could he turn his hand.
Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought
To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or helpd
At lading and unlading the tall barks,
That brought the stinted commerce of those days;
Thus earnd a scanty living for himself:
Yet since he did but labour for himself,
Work without hope, there was not life in it
Whereby the man could live; and as the year
Rolld itself round again to meet the day
When Enoch had returnd, a languor came
Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually
Weakening the man, till he could do no more,
But kept the house, his chair, and last his bed.
And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully.
For sure no gladlier does the stranded wreck
See thro the gray skirts of a lifting squall
The boat that bears the hope of life approach
To save the life despaird of, than he saw
Death dawning on him, and the close of all.
For thro that dawning gleamd a kindlier hope
On Enoch thinking after I am gone,
Then may she learn I lovd her to the last.
He calld aloud for Miriam Lane and said
Woman, I have a secretonly swear,
Before I tell youswear upon the book
Not to reveal it, till you see me dead.
Dead, clamourd the good woman, hear him talk!
I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round.
Swear added Enoch sternly on the book.
And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore.
Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her,
Did you know Enoch Arden of this town?
Know him? she said I knew him far away.
Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street;
Held his head high, and cared for no man, he.
Slowly and sadly Enoch answerd her;
His head is low, and no man cares for him.
I think I have not three days more to live;
I am the man. At which the woman gave
A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry.
You Arden, you! nay,sure he was a foot
Higher than you be. Enoch said again
My God has bowd me down to what I am;
My grief and solitude have broken me;
Nevertheless, know you that I am he
Who marriedbut that name has twice been changed
I married her who married Philip Ray.
Sit, listen. Then he told her of his voyage,
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back,
His gazing in on Annie, his resolve,
And how he kept it. As the woman heard,
Fast flowd the current of her easy tears,
While in her heart she yearnd incessantly
To rush abroad all round the little haven,
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes;
But awed and promise-bounden she forbore,
Saying only See your bairns before you go!
Eh, let me fetch em, Arden, and arose
Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung
A moment on her words, but then replied:
Woman, disturb me not now at the last,
But let me hold my purpose till I die.
Sit down again; mark me and understand,
While I have power to speak. I charge you now,
When you shall see her, tell her that I died
Blessing her, praying for her, loving her;
Save for the bar between us, loving her
As when she laid her head beside my own.
And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw
So like her mother, that my latest breath
Was spent in blessing her and praying for her.
And tell my son that I died blessing him.
And say to Philip that I blest him too;
He never meant us any thing but good.
But if my children care to see me dead,
Who hardly knew me living, let them come,
I am their father; but she must not come,
For my dead face would vex her after-life.
And now there is but one of all my blood
Who will embrace me in the world-to-be:
This hair is his: she cut it off and gave it,
And I have borne it with me all these years,
And thought to bear it with me to my grave;
But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him,
My babe in bliss: wherefore when I am gone,
Take, give her this, for it may comfort her:
It will moreover be a token to her,
That I am he.
He ceased; and Miriam Lane
Made such a voluble answer promising all,
That once again he rolld his eyes upon her
Repeating all he wishd, and once again
Then the third night after this,
While Enoch slumberd motionless and pale,
And Miriam watchd and dozed at intervals,
There came so loud a calling of the sea,
That all the houses in the haven rang.
He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad
Crying with a loud voice A sail! a sail!
I am saved; and so fell back and spoke no more.
So past the strong heroic soul away.
And when they buried him the little port
Had seldom seen a costlier funeral.
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