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."

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,

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,1 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 labor for himself,

1 See page 125.

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,
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.

For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kindlier hope On Enoch thinking, "after I am gone, Then may she learn I lov'd her to the last." He call'd 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."

66

Dead,” clamor❜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
Higher than you be."
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

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 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 1 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.

1

"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

1 Bounden, an old form of bound, here used, doubtless,

in large measure for the metre's sake.

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 roll'd his eyes upon her
Repeating all he wish'd, and once again

She promised.

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.

CROSSING THE BAR.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

SUNSET and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crost the bar.