Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm;And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands;Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharfIn cluster; then a moulder'd church; and higherA long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill;5And high in heaven behind it a gray downWith Danish barrows[203]; and a hazelwood,By autumn nutters haunted, flourishesGreen in a cuplike hollow of the down.Here on this beach a hundred years ago,10Three children, of three houses, Annie Lee,The prettiest little damsel in the port,And Philip Ray, the miller's only son,And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's ladMade orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd15Among the waste and lumber of the shore,Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets,Anchors of rusty fluke,[204]and boats updrawn;And built their castles of dissolving sandTo watch them overflow'd, or following up20And flying the white breaker, daily leftThe little footprint daily wash'd away.A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff;In this the children play'd at keeping house.Enoch was host one day, Philip the next,25While Annie still was mistress; but at timesEnoch 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 quarrell'd, Enoch stronger made30Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyesAll flooded with the helpless wrath of tears,Shriek out, "I hate you, Enoch," and at thisThe little wife would weep for company,And pray them not to quarrel for her sake,35And say she would be little wife to both.[205]But when the dawn of rosy childhood past,And the new warmth of life's ascending sunWas felt by either, either fixt his heartOn that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love,40But Philip loved in silence; and the girlSeem'd kinder unto Philip than to him;But she loved Enoch: tho' she knew it not,And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch setA purpose evermore before his eyes,45To hoard all savings to the uttermost,To purchase his own boat, and make a homeFor Annie: and so prosper'd that at lastA luckier or a bolder fisherman,A carefuller in peril, did not breathe50For leagues along that breaker-beaten coastThan Enoch. Likewise had he served a yearOn board a merchantman, and made himselfFull sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd a lifeFrom the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas:55And all men look'd upon him favorably:And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth MayHe purchased his own boat, and made a homeFor Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway upThe narrow street that clamber'd toward the mill.60Then, 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 stay'd(His father lying sick and needing him)65An hour behind; but as he climb'd the hill,Just where the prone edge of the wood beganTo feather toward the hollow, saw the pair,Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand,His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face70All-kindled by a still and sacred fire,That burn'd as on an altar. Philip look'd,And in their eyes and faces read his doom;Then, as their faces drew together, groan'd,And slipt aside, and like a wounded life75Crept down into the hollows of the wood;There, while the rest were loud in merrymaking,Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and pastBearing a lifelong hunger in his heart.So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells,80And merrily ran the years, seven happy years,Seven happy years of health and competence,And mutual love and honorable toil;With children; first a daughter. In him woke,With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish85To save all earnings to the uttermost,And give his child a better bringing-upThan his had been, or hers; a wish renew'd,When two years after came a boy to beThe rosy idol of her solitudes,90While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas,Or often journeying landward; for in truthEnoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean-spoilIn ocean-smelling osier,[206]and his face,Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter gales,95Not only to the market-cross were known,But in the leafy lanes behind the down,Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp[207]And peacock-yewtree[208]of the lonely Hall,Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering.100Then came a change, as all things human change.Ten miles to northward of the narrow portOpen'd a larger haven: thither usedEnoch at times to go by land or sea;And once when there, and clambering on a mast105In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell:A limb was broken when they lifted him;And while he lay recovering there, his wifeBore him another son, a sickly one:Another hand crept too across his trade110Taking her bread and theirs: and on him fell,Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man,Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom.He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night,To see his children leading evermore115Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth,And her he loved, a beggar: then he pray'd"Save them from this, whatever comes to me."And while he pray'd, the master of that shipEnoch had served in, hearing his mischance,120Came, 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 sail'd,Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch have the place?125And Enoch all at once assented to it,Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer.So now that shadow of mischance appear'dNo graver than as when some little cloudCuts off the fiery highway of the sun,130And isles a light in the offing: yet the wife—When he was gone—the children—what to do?Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans;To sell the boat—and yet he loved her well—How many a rough sea had he weather'd in her!135He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse—And yet to sell her—then with what she broughtBuy goods and stores—set Annie forth in tradeWith all that seamen needed or their wives—So might she keep the house while he was gone.140Should he not trade himself out yonder? goThis voyage more than once? yea, twice or thrice—As oft as needed—last, returning rich,Become the master of a larger craft,With fuller profits lead an easier life,145Have 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.150Forward 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 purposes155To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke.Then first since Enoch's golden ring had girtHer finger, Annie fought against his will:Yet not with brawling opposition she,But manifold entreaties, many a tear,160Many a sad kiss by day by night renew'd(Sure that all evil would come out of it)Besought him, supplicating, if he caredFor her or his dear children, not to go.He not for his own self caring but her,165Her 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 handTo fit their little streetward sitting-room170With shelf and corner for the goods and stores.So all day long till Enoch's last at home,Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe,Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hearHer own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd and rang,175Till this was ended, and his careful hand,—The space was narrow,—having order'd allAlmost as neat and close as Nature packsHer blossom or her seedling, paused; and he,Who needs would work for Annie to the last,180Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn.And Enoch faced this morning of farewellBrightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears,Save as his Annie's, were a laughter to him.Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man185Bow'd himself down, and in that mysteryWhere God-in-man is one with man-in-God,Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes,Whatever came to him: and then he said"Annie, this voyage by the grace of God190Will bring fair weather yet to all of us.Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me,For I'll be back, my girl, before you know it."Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, "and he,This pretty, puny, weakly little one,—195Nay—for I love him all the better for it—God bless him, he shall sit upon my kneesAnd 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."200Him running on thus hopefully she heard,And almost hoped herself; but when he turn'dThe current of his talk to graver things,In sailor fashion roughly sermonizingOn providence and trust in Heaven, she heard,205Heard 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;210And yet for all your wisdom well know IThat I shall look upon your face no more.""Well then," said Enoch, "I shall look on yours.[209]Annie, the ship I sail in passes here(He named the day), get you a seaman's glass,215Spy 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.220And fear no more for me; or if you fearCast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.Is He not yonder in those uttermostParts of the morning? if I flee to theseCan I go from him? and the sea is His,225The sea is His: He made it."Enoch rose,Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife,And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones;But for the third, the sickly one, who sleptAfter a night of feverous wakefulness,230When Annie would have raised him Enoch said,"Wake him not; let him sleep; how should the childRemember this?" and kiss'd him in his cot.But Annie from her baby's forehead cliptA tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept235Thro' all his future; but now hastily caughtHis bundle, waved his hand, and went his way.She, when the day, that Enoch mention'd, came,Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain: perhapsShe could not fix the glass to suit her eye;240Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous;She saw him not: and while he stood on deckWaving, the moment and the vessel past.Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sailShe watch'd it, and departed weeping for him;245Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as his grave,Set her sad will no less to chime with his,But throve not in her trade, not being bredTo barter, nor compensating the wantBy shrewdness, neither capable of lies,250Nor asking overmuch and taking less,And still foreboding "what would Enoch say?"For more than once, in days of difficultyAnd pressure, had she sold her wares for lessThan what she gave in buying what she sold:255She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it; and thus,Expectant of that news which never came,Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance,And lived a life of silent melancholy.Now the third child was sickly-born and grew260Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for itWith all a mother's care: nevertheless,Whether her business often call'd her from it,Or thro' the want of what it needed most,Or means to pay the voice who best could tell265What most it needed—howsoe'er 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,270Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her peace(Since Enoch left he had not look'd 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,275Past thro' the solitary room in front,Paused for a moment at an inner door,Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening,Enter'd; but Annie, seated with her grief,Fresh from the burial of her little one,280Cared not to look on any human face,But turn'd her own toward the wall and wept.Then Philip standing up said falteringly,"Annie, I came to ask a favor of you."He spoke; the passion in her moan'd reply,285"Favor from one so sad and so forlornAs I am!" half abash'd him; yet unask'd,His bashfulness and tenderness at war,He set himself beside her, saying to her:"I came to speak to you of what he wish'd,290Enoch, your husband: I have ever saidYou chose the best among us—a strong man:For where he fixt his heart he set his handTo do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro'.And wherefore did he go this weary way,295And leave you lonely? not to see the world—For pleasure?—nay, but for the wherewithalTo give his babes a better bringing-upThan his had been, or yours: that was his wish.And if he come again, vext will he be300To find the precious morning hours were lost.And it would vex him even in his grave,If he could know his babes were running wildLike colts about the waste. So, Annie, now—Have we not known each other all our lives?—305I do beseech you by the love you bearHim and his children not to say me nay—For, if you will, when Enoch comes again,Why then he shall repay me—if you will,Annie—for I am rich and well-to-do.310Now let me put the boy and girl to school:This is the favor that I came to ask."Then Annie with her brows against the wallAnswer'd, "I cannot look you in the face;I seem so foolish and so broken down.315When 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 ask'd320"Then you will let me, Annie?"There she turn'd,She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him,And dwelt a moment on his kindly face,Then calling down a blessing on his headCaught at his hand, and wrung it passionately,325And past into the little garth[210]beyond.So lifted up in spirit he moved away.Then Philip put the boy and girl to school,And bought them needful books, and every way,Like one who does his duty by his own,330Made himself theirs; and tho' for Annie's sake,Fearing the lazy gossip of the port,He oft denied his heart his dearest wish,And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sentGifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit,335The late and early roses from his wall,Or conies[211]from the down, and now and then,With some pretext of fineness in the mealTo save the offence of charitable, flourFrom his tall mill that whistled on the waste.340But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind:Scarce could the woman when he came upon her,Out of full heart and boundless gratitudeLight on a broken word to thank him with.But Philip was her children's all-in-all;345From distant corners of the street they ranTo greet his hearty welcome heartily;Lords of his house and of his mill were they;Worried his passive ear with petty wrongsOr pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him,350And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gain'dAs Enoch lost; for Enoch seem'd to themUncertain as a vision or a dream,Faint as a figure seen in early dawnDown at the far end of an avenue,355Going 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 Annie's children long'dTo go with others nutting to the wood,360And Annie would go with them; then they begg'dFor Father Philip (as they call'd him) too:Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust,Blanch'd with his mill, they found; and saying to him,"Come with us, Father Philip," he denied;365But when the children pluck'd at him to go,He laugh'd, 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[212]370To feather toward the hollow, all her forceFail'd her; and sighing, "Let me rest," she said:So Philip rested with her well-content;While all the younger ones with jubilant criesBroke from their elders, and tumultuously375Down thro' the whitening hazels made a plungeTo the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or brokeThe lithe reluctant boughs to tear awayTheir tawny clusters, crying to each otherAnd calling, here and there, about the wood.380But Philip sitting at her side forgotHer presence, and remember'd one dark hourHere in this wood, when like a wounded lifeHe crept into the shadow: at last he said,Lifting his honest forehead, "Listen, Annie,385How merry they are down yonder in the wood.Tired, Annie?" for she did not speak a word."Tired?" but her face had fall'n upon her hands;At which, as with a kind of anger in him,"The ship was lost," he said, "the ship was lost!390No more of that! why should you kill yourselfAnd make them orphans quite?" And Annie said"I thought not of it: but—I know not why—Their voices make me feel so solitary."Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke.395"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. Oh, Annie,It is beyond all hope, against all chance,400That he who left you ten long years agoShould still be living; well then—let me speak:I grieve to see you poor and wanting help:I cannot help you as I wish to doUnless—they say that women are so quick—405Perhaps you know what I would have you know—I wish you for my wife. I fain would proveA father to your children: I do thinkThey love me as a father: I am sureThat I love them as if they were mine own;410And I believe, if you were fast my wife,That after all these sad uncertain years,We might be still as happy as God grantsTo any of His creatures. Think upon it:For I am well-to-do—no kin, no care,415No 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 answer'd Annie; tenderly she spoke:"You have been as God's good angel in our house.420God bless you for it, God reward you for it,Philip, with something happier than myself.Can one love twice? can you be ever lovedAs Enoch was? what is it that you ask?""I am content," he answer'd, "to be loved425A little after Enoch." "Oh," she cried,Scared as it were, "dear Philip, wait a while:If Enoch comes—but Enoch will not come—Yet wait a year, a year is not so long:Surely I shall be wiser in a year:430Oh, wait a little!" Philip sadly said,"Annie, as I have waited all my lifeI well may wait a little." "Nay," she cried,"I am bound: you have my promise—in a year;Will you not bide your year as I bide mine?"435And Philip answer'd, "I will bide my year."Here both were mute, till Philip glancing upBeheld the dead flame of the fallen dayPass from the Danish barrow overhead;Then, fearing night and chill for Annie, rose,440And sent his voice beneath him thro' the wood.Up came the children laden with their spoil;Then all descended to the port, and thereAt Annie's door he paused and gave his hand,Saying gently, "Annie, when I spoke to you,445That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong.I am always bound to you, but you are free."Then Annie weeping answered, "I am bound."She spoke; and in one moment as it were,While yet she went about her household ways,450Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words,That he had loved her longer than she knew,That autumn into autumn flash'd again,And there he stood once more before her face,Claiming her promise. "Is it a year?" she ask'd.455"Yes, if the nuts," he said, "be ripe again:Come out and see." But she—she put him off—So much to look to—such a change—a month—Give her a month—she knew that she was bound—A month—no more. Then Philip with his eyes460Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voiceShaking a little like a drunkard's 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 delayingly465With many a scarce-believable excuse,Trying his truth and his long-sufferance,Till half another year had slipped away.By this the lazy gossips of the port,Abhorrent of a calculation crost,470Began 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 laughed at her and Philip too,As simple folk that knew not their own minds;475And one in whom all evil fancies clungLike serpent's eggs together, laughinglyWould hint at worse in either. Her own sonWas silent, tho' he often look'd his wish;But evermore the daughter prest upon her480To wed the man so dear to all of themAnd lift the household out of poverty;And Philip's rosy face contracting grewCareworn and wan; and all these things fell on himSharp as reproach.At last one night it chanced485That Annie could not sleep, but earnestlyPray'd for a sign, "my Enoch, is he gone?"Then compass'd round by the blind wall of nightBrook'd not the expectant terror of her heart,Started from bed, and struck herself a light,490Then desperately seized the holy Book,Suddenly set it wide to find a sign,Suddenly put her finger on the text,"Under the palm-tree.[213]" That was nothing to her:No meaning there: she closed the Book and slept:495When 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 singingHosanna in the highest: yonder shinesThe Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms500Whereof 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 God's sake," he answer'd, "both our sakes,505So 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 Annie's heart.A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path,510She knew not whence; a whisper on her ear,She knew not what; nor loved she to be leftAlone at home, nor ventured out alone.What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd, often,Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch,515Fearing 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 renew'd,Then the new mother came about her heart,520Then her good Philip was her all-in-all,And that mysterious instinct wholly died.And where was Enoch? prosperously sail'dThe ship Good Fortune, tho' at setting forthThe Biscay,[214]roughly ridging eastward, shook525And almost overwhelm'd her, yet unvextShe slipt across the summer of the world,[215]Then after a long tumble about the CapeAnd frequent interchange of foul and fair,She passing thro' the summer world again,530The breath of heaven came continuallyAnd sent her sweetly by the golden isles,Till silent in her oriental haven.There Enoch traded for himself, and boughtQuaint monsters for the market of those times,535A gilded dragon, also, for the babes.Less lucky her home-voyage: at first indeedThro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day,Scarce-rocking her full-busted figure-headStared o'er the ripple feathering from her bows:540Then follow'd calms, and then winds variable,Then baffling, a long course of them; and lastStorm, such as drove her under moonless heavensTill hard upon the cry of "breakers" cameThe crash of ruin, and the loss of all545But Enoch and two others. Half the night,Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken spars,These drifted, stranding on an isle at mornRich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea.No want was there of human sustenance,550Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots;Nor save for pity was it hard to takeThe helpless life so wild that it was tame.There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorgeThey built, and thatch'd with leaves of palm, a hut,555Half hut, half native cavern. So the three,Set in this Eden of all plenteousness,Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content.For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy,Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck,560Lay lingering out a five-years' death-in-life.They could not leave him. After he was gone,The two remaining found a fallen stem[216];And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself,Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell565Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone.In those two deaths he read God's warning, "Wait."The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawnsAnd winding glades high up like ways to Heaven,The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes,570The lightning flash of insect and of bird,The lustre of the long convolvuluses[217]That coil'd around the stately stems, and ranEv'n to the limit of the land, the glowsAnd glories of the broad belt of the world,[218]575All these he saw; but what he fain had seenHe could not see, the kindly human face,Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heardThe myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl,The league-long roller thundering on the reef,580The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'dAnd blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweepOf some precipitous rivulet to the wave,As down the shore he ranged, or all day longSat often in the seaward-gazing gorge,585A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail:No sail from day to day, but every dayThe sunrise broken into scarlet shaftsAmong the palms and ferns and precipices;590The 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 againThe scarlet shafts of sunrise—but no sail.595There often as he watch'd or seem'd to watch,So still, the golden lizard on him paused,A phantom made of many phantoms movedBefore him, haunting him, or he himselfMoved haunting people, things and places, known600Far 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 chill605November dawns and dewy-glooming downs,The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves,And the low moan of leaden-color'd seas.Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears,Tho' faintly, merrily—far and far away—610He heard the pealing of his parish bells;Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, started upShuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isleReturn'd upon him, had not his poor heartSpoken with That, which being everywhere615Lets none who speaks with Him seem all alone,Surely the man had died of solitude.Thus over Enoch's early-silvering headThe sunny and rainy seasons came and wentYear after year. His hopes to see his own,620And pace the sacred old familiar fields,Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doomCame suddenly to an end. Another ship(She wanted water) blown by baffling winds,Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course,625Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she lay:For since the mate had seen at early dawnAcross a break on the mist-wreathen isleThe silent water slipping from the hills,They sent a crew that landing burst away630In search of stream or fount, and fill'd the shoresWith clamor. Downward from his mountain gorge[219]Stept the long-hair'd, long-bearded solitary,Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad,Muttering and mumbling, idiot-like it seem'd,635With inarticulate rage, and making signsThey knew not what: and yet he led the wayTo where the rivulets of sweet water ran;And ever as he mingled with the crew,And heard them talking, his long-bounden tongue640Was loosen'd, till he made them understand;Whom, when their casks were fill'd they took aboardAnd there the tale he utter'd brokenly,Scarce-credited at first but more and more,Amazed and melted all who listen'd to it;645And clothes they gave him and free passage home;But oft he work'd among the rest and shookHis isolation from him. None of theseCame from his county, or could answer him,If question'd, aught of what he cared to know.650And dull the voyage was with long delays,The vessel scarce sea-worthy; but evermoreHis fancy fled before the lazy windReturning, till beneath a clouded moonHe like a lover down thro' all his blood655Drew in the dewy meadowy morning-breathOf England, blown across her ghostly wall:And that same morning officers and menLevied a kindly tax upon themselves,Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it:660Then moving up the coast they landed him,Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd before.There Enoch spoke no word to any one,But homeward—home—what home? had he a home?His home, he walk'd. Bright was that afternoon,665Sunny but chill; till drawn thro' either chasm,Where either haven open'd on the deeps,Roll'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the world in gray;Cut off the length of highway on before,And left but narrow breadth to left and right670Of wither'd holt[220]or tilth[221]or pasturage.On the nigh-naked tree the robin pipedDisconsolate, and thro' the dripping hazeThe dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down:Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom;675Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted lightFlared 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 reach'd the home680Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babesIn those far-off seven happy years were born;But finding neither light nor murmur there(A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) creptStill downward thinking, "dead, or dead to me!"685Down 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 gone690Who kept it; and his widow, Miriam Lane,With daily-dwindling profits held the house;A haunt of brawling seamen once, but nowStiller, with yet a bed for wandering men.There Enoch rested silent many days.695But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous,Nor let him be, but often breaking in,Told him, with other annals of the port,Not knowing—Enoch was so brown, so bow'd,So broken—all the story of his house.700His baby's 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 birthOf Philip's child: and o'er his countenance705No shadow past, nor motion: any one,Regarding, well had deem'd he felt the taleLess than the teller; only when she closed,"Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost,"He, shaking his gray head pathetically,710Repeated muttering, "cast away and lost;"Again in deeper inward whispers, "lost!"But Enoch yearned to see her face again;"If I might look on her sweet face againAnd know that she is happy." So the thought715Haunted and harass'd him, and drove him forth,At evening when the dull November dayWas growing duller twilight, to the hill.There he sat down gazing on all below;There did a thousand memories roll upon him,720Unspeakable for sadness. By and byThe ruddy square of comfortable light,Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house,Allured him, as the beacon-blaze alluresThe bird of passage, till he madly strikes725Against it, and beats out his weary life.For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street,The latest[222]house to landward; but behind,With one small gate that open'd on the waste,Flourish'd a little garden square and wall'd:730And in it throve an ancient evergreen,A yewtree, and all round it ran a walkOf shingle,[223]and a walk divided it:But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stoleUp by the wall, behind the yew; and thence735That which he better might have shunn'd, if griefsLike his have worse or better, Enoch saw.For cups and silver on the burnish'd boardSparkled and shone; so genial was the hearth:And on the right hand of the hearth he saw740Philip, 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,745Dangled a length of ribbon and a ringTo tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy[224]arms,Caught at, and ever miss'd it, and they laugh'd:And on the left hand of the hearth he sawThe mother glancing often toward her babe,750But 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 beheldHis wife his wife no more, and saw the babe755Hers, yet not his, upon the father's 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 children's love,—760Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all,Because things seen are mightier than things heard,Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, and fear'dTo send abroad a shrill and terrible cry,Which in one moment, like the blast of doom,765Would 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,770Crept to the gate, and open'd it, 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 kneesWere feeble, so that falling prone he dug775His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd."Too hard to bear! why did they take me thence?O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, ThouThat didst uphold me on my lonely isle,Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness780A little longer! aid me, give me strengthNot 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.785Never: no father's kiss for me—the girlSo like her mother, and the boy, my son."There speech and thought and nature fail'd a littleAnd he lay tranced; but when he rose and pacedBack toward his solitary home again,790All down the long and narrow street he wentBeating 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 resolve795Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermorePrayer 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,"800He 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 thought805"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 wrought810To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help'dAt 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,815Work without hope, there was not life in itWhereby the man could live; and as the yearRoll'd itself round again to meet the dayWhen Enoch had return'd, a languor cameUpon him, gentle sickness, gradually820Weakening 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 wreckSee thro' the gray skirts of a lifting squall825The boat that bears the hope of life approachTo save the life despair'd of, than he sawDeath dawning on him, and the close of all.For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kindlier hopeOn Enoch thinking, "after I am gone,830Then 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 bookNot to reveal it, till you see me dead."835"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,840"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:845"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 gaveA half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry."You Arden, you! nay,—sure he was a foot850Higher 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 heWho married—but that name has twice been changed—855I 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,860Fast flow'd the current of her easy tears,While in her heart she yearn'd incessantlyTo rush abroad all round the little haven,Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes;But awed and promise-bounden she forbore,865Saying only, "See your bairns before you go!Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden," and aroseEager to bring them down, for Enoch hungA moment on her words, but then replied:"Woman, disturb me not now at the last,870But let me hold my purpose till I die.Sit down again; mark me and understand,While I have power to speak. I charge you nowWhen you shall see her, tell her that I diedBlessing her, praying for her, loving her;875Save for the bar between us, loving herAs when she lay her head beside my own.And tell my daughter Annie, whom I sawSo like her mother, that my latest breathWas spent in blessing her and praying for her.880And 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,885I 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,890And 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:895It will moreover be a token to her,That I am he."He ceased; and Miriam LaneMade such a voluble answer promising all,That once again he roll'd his eyes upon herRepeating all he wish'd, and once again900She 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.905He 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 port910Had seldom seen a costlier funeral.
Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm;And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands;Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharfIn cluster; then a moulder'd church; and higherA long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill;5And high in heaven behind it a gray downWith Danish barrows[203]; and a hazelwood,By autumn nutters haunted, flourishesGreen in a cuplike hollow of the down.
Here on this beach a hundred years ago,10Three children, of three houses, Annie Lee,The prettiest little damsel in the port,And Philip Ray, the miller's only son,And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's ladMade orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd15Among the waste and lumber of the shore,Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets,Anchors of rusty fluke,[204]and boats updrawn;And built their castles of dissolving sandTo watch them overflow'd, or following up20And flying the white breaker, daily leftThe little footprint daily wash'd away.
A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff;In this the children play'd at keeping house.Enoch was host one day, Philip the next,25While Annie still was mistress; but at timesEnoch 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 quarrell'd, Enoch stronger made30Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyesAll flooded with the helpless wrath of tears,Shriek out, "I hate you, Enoch," and at thisThe little wife would weep for company,And pray them not to quarrel for her sake,35And say she would be little wife to both.[205]
But when the dawn of rosy childhood past,And the new warmth of life's ascending sunWas felt by either, either fixt his heartOn that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love,40But Philip loved in silence; and the girlSeem'd kinder unto Philip than to him;But she loved Enoch: tho' she knew it not,And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch setA purpose evermore before his eyes,45To hoard all savings to the uttermost,To purchase his own boat, and make a homeFor Annie: and so prosper'd that at lastA luckier or a bolder fisherman,A carefuller in peril, did not breathe50For leagues along that breaker-beaten coastThan Enoch. Likewise had he served a yearOn board a merchantman, and made himselfFull sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd a lifeFrom the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas:55And all men look'd upon him favorably:And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth MayHe purchased his own boat, and made a homeFor Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway upThe narrow street that clamber'd toward the mill.60
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 stay'd(His father lying sick and needing him)65An hour behind; but as he climb'd the hill,Just where the prone edge of the wood beganTo feather toward the hollow, saw the pair,Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand,His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face70All-kindled by a still and sacred fire,That burn'd as on an altar. Philip look'd,And in their eyes and faces read his doom;Then, as their faces drew together, groan'd,And slipt aside, and like a wounded life75Crept down into the hollows of the wood;There, while the rest were loud in merrymaking,Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and pastBearing a lifelong hunger in his heart.
So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells,80And merrily ran the years, seven happy years,Seven happy years of health and competence,And mutual love and honorable toil;With children; first a daughter. In him woke,With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish85To save all earnings to the uttermost,And give his child a better bringing-upThan his had been, or hers; a wish renew'd,When two years after came a boy to beThe rosy idol of her solitudes,90While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas,Or often journeying landward; for in truthEnoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean-spoilIn ocean-smelling osier,[206]and his face,Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter gales,95Not only to the market-cross were known,But in the leafy lanes behind the down,Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp[207]And peacock-yewtree[208]of the lonely Hall,Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering.100
Then came a change, as all things human change.Ten miles to northward of the narrow portOpen'd a larger haven: thither usedEnoch at times to go by land or sea;And once when there, and clambering on a mast105In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell:A limb was broken when they lifted him;And while he lay recovering there, his wifeBore him another son, a sickly one:Another hand crept too across his trade110Taking her bread and theirs: and on him fell,Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man,Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom.He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night,To see his children leading evermore115Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth,And her he loved, a beggar: then he pray'd"Save them from this, whatever comes to me."And while he pray'd, the master of that shipEnoch had served in, hearing his mischance,120Came, 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 sail'd,Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch have the place?125And Enoch all at once assented to it,Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer.
So now that shadow of mischance appear'dNo graver than as when some little cloudCuts off the fiery highway of the sun,130And isles a light in the offing: yet the wife—When he was gone—the children—what to do?Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans;To sell the boat—and yet he loved her well—How many a rough sea had he weather'd in her!135He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse—And yet to sell her—then with what she broughtBuy goods and stores—set Annie forth in tradeWith all that seamen needed or their wives—So might she keep the house while he was gone.140Should he not trade himself out yonder? goThis voyage more than once? yea, twice or thrice—As oft as needed—last, returning rich,Become the master of a larger craft,With fuller profits lead an easier life,145Have 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.150Forward 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 purposes155To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke.
Then first since Enoch's golden ring had girtHer finger, Annie fought against his will:Yet not with brawling opposition she,But manifold entreaties, many a tear,160Many a sad kiss by day by night renew'd(Sure that all evil would come out of it)Besought him, supplicating, if he caredFor her or his dear children, not to go.He not for his own self caring but her,165Her 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 handTo fit their little streetward sitting-room170With shelf and corner for the goods and stores.So all day long till Enoch's last at home,Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe,Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hearHer own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd and rang,175Till this was ended, and his careful hand,—The space was narrow,—having order'd allAlmost as neat and close as Nature packsHer blossom or her seedling, paused; and he,Who needs would work for Annie to the last,180Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn.
And Enoch faced this morning of farewellBrightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears,Save as his Annie's, were a laughter to him.Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man185Bow'd himself down, and in that mysteryWhere God-in-man is one with man-in-God,Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes,Whatever came to him: and then he said"Annie, this voyage by the grace of God190Will bring fair weather yet to all of us.Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me,For I'll be back, my girl, before you know it."Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, "and he,This pretty, puny, weakly little one,—195Nay—for I love him all the better for it—God bless him, he shall sit upon my kneesAnd 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."200
Him running on thus hopefully she heard,And almost hoped herself; but when he turn'dThe current of his talk to graver things,In sailor fashion roughly sermonizingOn providence and trust in Heaven, she heard,205Heard 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;210And yet for all your wisdom well know IThat I shall look upon your face no more."
"Well then," said Enoch, "I shall look on yours.[209]Annie, the ship I sail in passes here(He named the day), get you a seaman's glass,215Spy 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.220And fear no more for me; or if you fearCast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.Is He not yonder in those uttermostParts of the morning? if I flee to theseCan I go from him? and the sea is His,225The sea is His: He made it."
Enoch rose,Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife,And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones;But for the third, the sickly one, who sleptAfter a night of feverous wakefulness,230When Annie would have raised him Enoch said,"Wake him not; let him sleep; how should the childRemember this?" and kiss'd him in his cot.But Annie from her baby's forehead cliptA tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept235Thro' all his future; but now hastily caughtHis bundle, waved his hand, and went his way.
She, when the day, that Enoch mention'd, came,Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain: perhapsShe could not fix the glass to suit her eye;240Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous;She saw him not: and while he stood on deckWaving, the moment and the vessel past.
Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sailShe watch'd it, and departed weeping for him;245Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as his grave,Set her sad will no less to chime with his,But throve not in her trade, not being bredTo barter, nor compensating the wantBy shrewdness, neither capable of lies,250Nor asking overmuch and taking less,And still foreboding "what would Enoch say?"For more than once, in days of difficultyAnd pressure, had she sold her wares for lessThan what she gave in buying what she sold:255She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it; and thus,Expectant of that news which never came,Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance,And lived a life of silent melancholy.
Now the third child was sickly-born and grew260Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for itWith all a mother's care: nevertheless,Whether her business often call'd her from it,Or thro' the want of what it needed most,Or means to pay the voice who best could tell265What most it needed—howsoe'er 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,270Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her peace(Since Enoch left he had not look'd 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,275Past thro' the solitary room in front,Paused for a moment at an inner door,Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening,Enter'd; but Annie, seated with her grief,Fresh from the burial of her little one,280Cared not to look on any human face,But turn'd her own toward the wall and wept.Then Philip standing up said falteringly,"Annie, I came to ask a favor of you."
He spoke; the passion in her moan'd reply,285"Favor from one so sad and so forlornAs I am!" half abash'd him; yet unask'd,His bashfulness and tenderness at war,He set himself beside her, saying to her:
"I came to speak to you of what he wish'd,290Enoch, your husband: I have ever saidYou chose the best among us—a strong man:For where he fixt his heart he set his handTo do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro'.And wherefore did he go this weary way,295And leave you lonely? not to see the world—For pleasure?—nay, but for the wherewithalTo give his babes a better bringing-upThan his had been, or yours: that was his wish.And if he come again, vext will he be300To find the precious morning hours were lost.And it would vex him even in his grave,If he could know his babes were running wildLike colts about the waste. So, Annie, now—Have we not known each other all our lives?—305I do beseech you by the love you bearHim and his children not to say me nay—For, if you will, when Enoch comes again,Why then he shall repay me—if you will,Annie—for I am rich and well-to-do.310Now let me put the boy and girl to school:This is the favor that I came to ask."
Then Annie with her brows against the wallAnswer'd, "I cannot look you in the face;I seem so foolish and so broken down.315When 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 ask'd320"Then you will let me, Annie?"There she turn'd,She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him,And dwelt a moment on his kindly face,Then calling down a blessing on his headCaught at his hand, and wrung it passionately,325And past into the little garth[210]beyond.So lifted up in spirit he moved away.
Then Philip put the boy and girl to school,And bought them needful books, and every way,Like one who does his duty by his own,330Made himself theirs; and tho' for Annie's sake,Fearing the lazy gossip of the port,He oft denied his heart his dearest wish,And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sentGifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit,335The late and early roses from his wall,Or conies[211]from the down, and now and then,With some pretext of fineness in the mealTo save the offence of charitable, flourFrom his tall mill that whistled on the waste.340
But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind:Scarce could the woman when he came upon her,Out of full heart and boundless gratitudeLight on a broken word to thank him with.But Philip was her children's all-in-all;345From distant corners of the street they ranTo greet his hearty welcome heartily;Lords of his house and of his mill were they;Worried his passive ear with petty wrongsOr pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him,350And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gain'dAs Enoch lost; for Enoch seem'd to themUncertain as a vision or a dream,Faint as a figure seen in early dawnDown at the far end of an avenue,355Going 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 Annie's children long'dTo go with others nutting to the wood,360And Annie would go with them; then they begg'dFor Father Philip (as they call'd him) too:Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust,Blanch'd with his mill, they found; and saying to him,"Come with us, Father Philip," he denied;365But when the children pluck'd at him to go,He laugh'd, 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[212]370To feather toward the hollow, all her forceFail'd her; and sighing, "Let me rest," she said:So Philip rested with her well-content;While all the younger ones with jubilant criesBroke from their elders, and tumultuously375Down thro' the whitening hazels made a plungeTo the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or brokeThe lithe reluctant boughs to tear awayTheir tawny clusters, crying to each otherAnd calling, here and there, about the wood.380
But Philip sitting at her side forgotHer presence, and remember'd one dark hourHere in this wood, when like a wounded lifeHe crept into the shadow: at last he said,Lifting his honest forehead, "Listen, Annie,385How merry they are down yonder in the wood.Tired, Annie?" for she did not speak a word."Tired?" but her face had fall'n upon her hands;At which, as with a kind of anger in him,"The ship was lost," he said, "the ship was lost!390No more of that! why should you kill yourselfAnd make them orphans quite?" And Annie said"I thought not of it: but—I know not why—Their voices make me feel so solitary."
Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke.395"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. Oh, Annie,It is beyond all hope, against all chance,400That he who left you ten long years agoShould still be living; well then—let me speak:I grieve to see you poor and wanting help:I cannot help you as I wish to doUnless—they say that women are so quick—405Perhaps you know what I would have you know—I wish you for my wife. I fain would proveA father to your children: I do thinkThey love me as a father: I am sureThat I love them as if they were mine own;410And I believe, if you were fast my wife,That after all these sad uncertain years,We might be still as happy as God grantsTo any of His creatures. Think upon it:For I am well-to-do—no kin, no care,415No 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 answer'd Annie; tenderly she spoke:"You have been as God's good angel in our house.420God bless you for it, God reward you for it,Philip, with something happier than myself.Can one love twice? can you be ever lovedAs Enoch was? what is it that you ask?""I am content," he answer'd, "to be loved425A little after Enoch." "Oh," she cried,Scared as it were, "dear Philip, wait a while:If Enoch comes—but Enoch will not come—Yet wait a year, a year is not so long:Surely I shall be wiser in a year:430Oh, wait a little!" Philip sadly said,"Annie, as I have waited all my lifeI well may wait a little." "Nay," she cried,"I am bound: you have my promise—in a year;Will you not bide your year as I bide mine?"435And Philip answer'd, "I will bide my year."
Here both were mute, till Philip glancing upBeheld the dead flame of the fallen dayPass from the Danish barrow overhead;Then, fearing night and chill for Annie, rose,440And sent his voice beneath him thro' the wood.Up came the children laden with their spoil;Then all descended to the port, and thereAt Annie's door he paused and gave his hand,Saying gently, "Annie, when I spoke to you,445That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong.I am always bound to you, but you are free."Then Annie weeping answered, "I am bound."
She spoke; and in one moment as it were,While yet she went about her household ways,450Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words,That he had loved her longer than she knew,That autumn into autumn flash'd again,And there he stood once more before her face,Claiming her promise. "Is it a year?" she ask'd.455"Yes, if the nuts," he said, "be ripe again:Come out and see." But she—she put him off—So much to look to—such a change—a month—Give her a month—she knew that she was bound—A month—no more. Then Philip with his eyes460Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voiceShaking a little like a drunkard's 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 delayingly465With many a scarce-believable excuse,Trying his truth and his long-sufferance,Till half another year had slipped away.
By this the lazy gossips of the port,Abhorrent of a calculation crost,470Began 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 laughed at her and Philip too,As simple folk that knew not their own minds;475And one in whom all evil fancies clungLike serpent's eggs together, laughinglyWould hint at worse in either. Her own sonWas silent, tho' he often look'd his wish;But evermore the daughter prest upon her480To wed the man so dear to all of themAnd lift the household out of poverty;And Philip's rosy face contracting grewCareworn and wan; and all these things fell on himSharp as reproach.At last one night it chanced485That Annie could not sleep, but earnestlyPray'd for a sign, "my Enoch, is he gone?"Then compass'd round by the blind wall of nightBrook'd not the expectant terror of her heart,Started from bed, and struck herself a light,490Then desperately seized the holy Book,Suddenly set it wide to find a sign,Suddenly put her finger on the text,"Under the palm-tree.[213]" That was nothing to her:No meaning there: she closed the Book and slept:495When 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 singingHosanna in the highest: yonder shinesThe Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms500Whereof 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 God's sake," he answer'd, "both our sakes,505So 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 Annie's heart.A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path,510She knew not whence; a whisper on her ear,She knew not what; nor loved she to be leftAlone at home, nor ventured out alone.What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd, often,Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch,515Fearing 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 renew'd,Then the new mother came about her heart,520Then her good Philip was her all-in-all,And that mysterious instinct wholly died.
And where was Enoch? prosperously sail'dThe ship Good Fortune, tho' at setting forthThe Biscay,[214]roughly ridging eastward, shook525And almost overwhelm'd her, yet unvextShe slipt across the summer of the world,[215]Then after a long tumble about the CapeAnd frequent interchange of foul and fair,She passing thro' the summer world again,530The breath of heaven came continuallyAnd sent her sweetly by the golden isles,Till silent in her oriental haven.
There Enoch traded for himself, and boughtQuaint monsters for the market of those times,535A gilded dragon, also, for the babes.
Less lucky her home-voyage: at first indeedThro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day,Scarce-rocking her full-busted figure-headStared o'er the ripple feathering from her bows:540Then follow'd calms, and then winds variable,Then baffling, a long course of them; and lastStorm, such as drove her under moonless heavensTill hard upon the cry of "breakers" cameThe crash of ruin, and the loss of all545But Enoch and two others. Half the night,Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken spars,These drifted, stranding on an isle at mornRich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea.
No want was there of human sustenance,550Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots;Nor save for pity was it hard to takeThe helpless life so wild that it was tame.There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorgeThey built, and thatch'd with leaves of palm, a hut,555Half hut, half native cavern. So the three,Set in this Eden of all plenteousness,Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content.
For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy,Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck,560Lay lingering out a five-years' death-in-life.They could not leave him. After he was gone,The two remaining found a fallen stem[216];And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself,Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell565Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone.In those two deaths he read God's warning, "Wait."
The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawnsAnd winding glades high up like ways to Heaven,The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes,570The lightning flash of insect and of bird,The lustre of the long convolvuluses[217]That coil'd around the stately stems, and ranEv'n to the limit of the land, the glowsAnd glories of the broad belt of the world,[218]575All these he saw; but what he fain had seenHe could not see, the kindly human face,Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heardThe myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl,The league-long roller thundering on the reef,580The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'dAnd blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweepOf some precipitous rivulet to the wave,As down the shore he ranged, or all day longSat often in the seaward-gazing gorge,585A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail:No sail from day to day, but every dayThe sunrise broken into scarlet shaftsAmong the palms and ferns and precipices;590The 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 againThe scarlet shafts of sunrise—but no sail.595
There often as he watch'd or seem'd to watch,So still, the golden lizard on him paused,A phantom made of many phantoms movedBefore him, haunting him, or he himselfMoved haunting people, things and places, known600Far 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 chill605November dawns and dewy-glooming downs,The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves,And the low moan of leaden-color'd seas.
Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears,Tho' faintly, merrily—far and far away—610He heard the pealing of his parish bells;Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, started upShuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isleReturn'd upon him, had not his poor heartSpoken with That, which being everywhere615Lets none who speaks with Him seem all alone,Surely the man had died of solitude.
Thus over Enoch's early-silvering headThe sunny and rainy seasons came and wentYear after year. His hopes to see his own,620And pace the sacred old familiar fields,Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doomCame suddenly to an end. Another ship(She wanted water) blown by baffling winds,Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course,625Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she lay:For since the mate had seen at early dawnAcross a break on the mist-wreathen isleThe silent water slipping from the hills,They sent a crew that landing burst away630In search of stream or fount, and fill'd the shoresWith clamor. Downward from his mountain gorge[219]Stept the long-hair'd, long-bearded solitary,Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad,Muttering and mumbling, idiot-like it seem'd,635With inarticulate rage, and making signsThey knew not what: and yet he led the wayTo where the rivulets of sweet water ran;And ever as he mingled with the crew,And heard them talking, his long-bounden tongue640Was loosen'd, till he made them understand;Whom, when their casks were fill'd they took aboardAnd there the tale he utter'd brokenly,Scarce-credited at first but more and more,Amazed and melted all who listen'd to it;645And clothes they gave him and free passage home;But oft he work'd among the rest and shookHis isolation from him. None of theseCame from his county, or could answer him,If question'd, aught of what he cared to know.650And dull the voyage was with long delays,The vessel scarce sea-worthy; but evermoreHis fancy fled before the lazy windReturning, till beneath a clouded moonHe like a lover down thro' all his blood655Drew in the dewy meadowy morning-breathOf England, blown across her ghostly wall:And that same morning officers and menLevied a kindly tax upon themselves,Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it:660Then moving up the coast they landed him,Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd before.
There Enoch spoke no word to any one,But homeward—home—what home? had he a home?His home, he walk'd. Bright was that afternoon,665Sunny but chill; till drawn thro' either chasm,Where either haven open'd on the deeps,Roll'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the world in gray;Cut off the length of highway on before,And left but narrow breadth to left and right670Of wither'd holt[220]or tilth[221]or pasturage.On the nigh-naked tree the robin pipedDisconsolate, and thro' the dripping hazeThe dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down:Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom;675Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted lightFlared 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 reach'd the home680Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babesIn those far-off seven happy years were born;But finding neither light nor murmur there(A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) creptStill downward thinking, "dead, or dead to me!"685
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 gone690Who kept it; and his widow, Miriam Lane,With daily-dwindling profits held the house;A haunt of brawling seamen once, but nowStiller, with yet a bed for wandering men.There Enoch rested silent many days.695
But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous,Nor let him be, but often breaking in,Told him, with other annals of the port,Not knowing—Enoch was so brown, so bow'd,So broken—all the story of his house.700His baby's 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 birthOf Philip's child: and o'er his countenance705No shadow past, nor motion: any one,Regarding, well had deem'd he felt the taleLess than the teller; only when she closed,"Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost,"He, shaking his gray head pathetically,710Repeated muttering, "cast away and lost;"Again in deeper inward whispers, "lost!"
But Enoch yearned to see her face again;"If I might look on her sweet face againAnd know that she is happy." So the thought715Haunted and harass'd him, and drove him forth,At evening when the dull November dayWas growing duller twilight, to the hill.There he sat down gazing on all below;There did a thousand memories roll upon him,720Unspeakable for sadness. By and byThe ruddy square of comfortable light,Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house,Allured him, as the beacon-blaze alluresThe bird of passage, till he madly strikes725Against it, and beats out his weary life.
For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street,The latest[222]house to landward; but behind,With one small gate that open'd on the waste,Flourish'd a little garden square and wall'd:730And in it throve an ancient evergreen,A yewtree, and all round it ran a walkOf shingle,[223]and a walk divided it:But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stoleUp by the wall, behind the yew; and thence735That which he better might have shunn'd, if griefsLike his have worse or better, Enoch saw.
For cups and silver on the burnish'd boardSparkled and shone; so genial was the hearth:And on the right hand of the hearth he saw740Philip, 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,745Dangled a length of ribbon and a ringTo tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy[224]arms,Caught at, and ever miss'd it, and they laugh'd:And on the left hand of the hearth he sawThe mother glancing often toward her babe,750But 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 beheldHis wife his wife no more, and saw the babe755Hers, yet not his, upon the father's 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 children's love,—760Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all,Because things seen are mightier than things heard,Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, and fear'dTo send abroad a shrill and terrible cry,Which in one moment, like the blast of doom,765Would 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,770Crept to the gate, and open'd it, 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 kneesWere feeble, so that falling prone he dug775His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd.
"Too hard to bear! why did they take me thence?O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, ThouThat didst uphold me on my lonely isle,Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness780A little longer! aid me, give me strengthNot 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.785Never: no father's kiss for me—the girlSo like her mother, and the boy, my son."
There speech and thought and nature fail'd a littleAnd he lay tranced; but when he rose and pacedBack toward his solitary home again,790All down the long and narrow street he wentBeating 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 resolve795Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermorePrayer 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,"800He 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 thought805"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 wrought810To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help'dAt 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,815Work without hope, there was not life in itWhereby the man could live; and as the yearRoll'd itself round again to meet the dayWhen Enoch had return'd, a languor cameUpon him, gentle sickness, gradually820Weakening 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 wreckSee thro' the gray skirts of a lifting squall825The boat that bears the hope of life approachTo save the life despair'd of, than he sawDeath dawning on him, and the close of all.
For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kindlier hopeOn Enoch thinking, "after I am gone,830Then 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 bookNot to reveal it, till you see me dead."835"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,840"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:845"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 gaveA half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry."You Arden, you! nay,—sure he was a foot850Higher 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 heWho married—but that name has twice been changed—855I 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,860Fast flow'd the current of her easy tears,While in her heart she yearn'd incessantlyTo rush abroad all round the little haven,Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes;But awed and promise-bounden she forbore,865Saying only, "See your bairns before you go!Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden," and aroseEager to bring them down, for Enoch hungA moment on her words, but then replied:
"Woman, disturb me not now at the last,870But let me hold my purpose till I die.Sit down again; mark me and understand,While I have power to speak. I charge you nowWhen you shall see her, tell her that I diedBlessing her, praying for her, loving her;875Save for the bar between us, loving herAs when she lay her head beside my own.And tell my daughter Annie, whom I sawSo like her mother, that my latest breathWas spent in blessing her and praying for her.880And 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,885I 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,890And 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:895It will moreover be a token to her,That I am he."
He ceased; and Miriam LaneMade such a voluble answer promising all,That once again he roll'd his eyes upon herRepeating all he wish'd, and once again900She 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.905He 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 port910Had seldom seen a costlier funeral.
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