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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 yearn’d 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 harass'd 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 Philip's 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 cups and silver on the burnish'd
board Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the
saw Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, Stout, rosy, with his babe across his
For Philip's dwelling fronted on the
street, The latest house to landward; but behind, With one small gate that opend on the
waste, Flourish'd a little garden square and
wall'd : 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 shunn'd the middle walk and
stole Up by the wall, behind the yew; and
thence That which he better might have shunn'd,
if griefs Like his have worse or better, Enoch
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 father's knee, And all the warmth, the peace, the happi.
ness, And his own children tall and beautiful, And him, that other, reigning in his place, Lord of his rights and of his children's
love,Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him
all, Because things seen are mightier than
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 therefore turning softly like a thief, Lest the harsh shingle should grate under
foot, And feeling all along the garden-wall, Lest he should swoon and tumble and be
found, Crept to the gate, and open’dit, and closed, As lightly as a sick man's 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 pray’d.
• 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 father's kiss for me—the girl So like her mother, and the boy, my son.'
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 miller's
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 call'd 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
help'd At lading and unlading the tall barks, That brought the stinted commerce of
those days; Thus earn'd 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 Roll'd itself round again to meet the day When Enoch had return'd, a languor came Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually Weakening the man, till he could do no
There speech and thought and nature
fail'd a little, And he lay tranced; but when he rose
and paced Back toward his solitary home again,
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 despair'd of, than he saw Death dawning on him, and the close of all.
Higher than you be.' Enoch said again My God has bow'd me down to what I
am; My grief and solitude have broken me; Nevertheless, know you that I am he Who married—but that name has twice
been changedI 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 flow'd the current of her easy tears, While in her heart she yearn’d incessantly To rush abroad all round the little haven, Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes' ; But awed and promise-bounden she for
bore, 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 :
For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kind
lier hope On Enoch thinking after I am gone, Then may she learn I lov'd her to the last.' He calld aloud for Miriam Lane and said *Woman, I have a secret--only swear, Before I tell you-swear upon the book Not to reveal it, till you see me dead.' * Dead,' clamour'd 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 answer'd 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
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 wish’d, and once again She promised.
THE BROOK. HERE, by this brook, we parted; I to the
East And he for Italy—too late--too late : One whom the strong sons of the world
despise ; For lucky rhymes to him were scrip and
share, And mellow metres more than cent for
cent; Nor could he understand how money
breeds, Thought it a dead thing; yet himself
could make The thing that is not as the thing that
is. O had he lived ! In our schoolbooks we
say, Of those that held their heads above the
crowd, They flourish'd then or then ; but life in
him Could scarce be said to Aourish, only
touch'd On such a time as goes before the leaf, When all the wood stands in a mist of
green, And nothing perfect : yet the brook he
loved, For which, in branding summers of
Bengal, Or ev'n the sweet half-English Neilgherry
air I panted, seems, as I re-listen to it, Prattling the primrose fancies of the
boy, To me that loved him ; for “O brook,' he
says, "O babbling brook,' says Edmund in his
rhyme, “Whence come you?' and the brook, why
Then the third night after this, While Enoch slumber'd motionless and
pale, And Miriam watch'd 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
So past the strong heroic soul away. And when they buried him the little port Had seldom seen a costlier funeral.
I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally,
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite
worn out, · Travelling to Naples. There is Darnley
In little sharps and trebles,
I babble on the pebbles.
By many a field and fallow,
With willow-weed and mallow.
To join the brimming river,
But I go on for ever.
or bird ;
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a grayling,
"Sweet Katie, once I did her a good
turn, Her and her far-off cousin and betrothed, James Willows, of one name and heart
with her. For here I came, twenty years back—the
week Before I parted with poor Edmund; crost By that old bridge which, half in ruins
then, Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the gleam Beyond it, where the waters marry-crost, Whistling a random bar of Bonny Doon, And push'd at Philip's garden-gate. The
gate, Half-parted from a weak and scolding
hinge, Stuck; and he clamour'd from a case
ment, “ Run” To Katie somewhere in the walks below, “Run, Katie !” Katie never ran : she
moved To meet me, winding under woodbine
bowers, A little flutter'd, with her eyelids down, Fresh apple-blossom, blushing for a boon.
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,
• What was it? less of sentiment than