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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

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 o'er her second father stoopt a girl,
A later but a loftier Annie Lee,
Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted

hand
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring
To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy

arms,
Caught at and ever miss'd it, and they

laugh'd :
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.

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

saw.

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

things heard,

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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

more,

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

foot

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

not? replies.

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

no more.

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,
And sparkle out among the fern,

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.

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Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite

worn out, · Travelling to Naples. There is Darnley

bridge,
It has more ivy; there the river; and there
Stands Philip's farm where brook and

river meet.
I chatter over stony ways,

In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,

I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my banks I fret

By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set

With willow-weed and mallow.
I chatter, chatter, as I flow

To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,

But I go on for ever.
But Philip chatter'd more than brook

or bird ;
Old Philip; all about the fields you caught
His weary daylong chirping, like the dry
High-elbow'd grigs that leap in summer

grass.
I wind about, and in and out,

With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,

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

sense

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