Tennyson

Enoch Arden

ENOCH ARDEN

Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm;
            And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands;
            Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf
            In cluster; then a moulder'd church; and higher
            A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill;
            And high in heaven behind it a gray down
            With Danish barrows; and a hazelwood,
            By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes
            Green in a cuplike hollow of the down. 
              Here on this beach a hundred years ago,
            Three children of three houses, Annie Lee,
            The prettiest little damsel in the port,
            And Philip Ray the miller's only son,
            And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad
            Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd
            Among the waste and lumber of the shore,
            Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets,
            Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn,
            And built their castles of dissolving sand
            To watch them overflow'd, or following up
            And flying the white breaker, daily left
            The 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,
            While Annie still was mistress; but at times
            Enoch would hold possession for a week:
            `This is my house and this my little wife.'
            `Mine too' said Philip `turn and turn about:'
            When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch stronger-made
            Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes
            All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears,
            Shriek out `I hate you, Enoch,' and at this
            The little wife would weep for company,
            And pray them not to quarrel for her sake,
            And say she would be little wife to both. 
              But when the dawn of rosy childhood past,
            And the new warmth of life's ascending sun
            Was felt by either, either fixt his heart
            On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love,
            But Philip loved in silence; and the girl
            Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him;
            But she loved Enoch; tho' she knew it not,
            And would if ask'd deny it.  Enoch set
            A purpose evermore before his eyes,
            To hoard all savings to the uttermost,
            To purchase his own boat, and make a home
            For Annie: and so prosper'd that at last
            A luckier or a bolder fisherman,
            A carefuller in peril, did not breathe
            For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast
            Than Enoch.  Likewise had he served a year
            On board a merchantman, and made himself
            Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd a life
            From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas:
            And all me look'd upon him favorably:
            And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth May
            He purchased his own boat, and made a home
            For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway up
            The narrow street that clamber'd toward the mill. 
              Then, on a golden autumn eventide,
            The younger people making holiday,
            With bag and sack and basket, great and small,
            Went nutting to the hazels.  Philip stay'd
            (His father lying sick and needing him)
            An hour behind; but as he climb'd the hill,
            Just where the prone edge of the wood began
            To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair,
            Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand,
            His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face
            All-kindled by a still and sacred fire,
            That 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 life
            Crept down into the hollows of the wood;
            There, while the rest were loud in merrymaking,
            Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past
            Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. 
              So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells,
            And merrily ran the years, seven happy years,
            Seven happy years of health and competence,
            And mutual love and honorable toil;
            With children; first a daughter.  In him woke,
            With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish
            To save all earnings to the uttermost,
            And give his child a better bringing-up
            Than his had been, or hers; a wish renew'd,
            When two years after came a boy to be
            The rosy idol of her solitudes,
            While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas,
            Or often journeying landward; for in truth
            Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean-spoil
            In ocean-smelling osier, and his face,
            Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter gales,
            Not only to the market-cross were known,
            But in the leafy lanes behind the down,
            Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp,
            And peacock-yewtree of the lonely Hall,
            Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering. 
              Then came a change, as all things human change.
            Ten miles to northward of the narrow port
            Open'd a larger haven: thither used
            Enoch at times to go by land or sea;
            And once when there, and clambering on a mast
            In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell:
            A limb was broken when they lifted him;
            And while he lay recovering there, his wife
            Bore him another son, a sickly one:
            Another hand crept too across his trade
            Taking her bread and theirs: and on him fell,
            Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man,
            Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom.
            He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night,
            To see his children leading evermore
            Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth,
            And her, he loved, a beggar: then he pray'd
            `Save them from this, whatever comes to me.'
            And while he pray'd, the master of that ship
            Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance,
            Came, for he knew the man and valued him,
            Reporting of his vessel China-bound,
            And wanting yet a boatswain.  Would he go?
            There yet were many weeks before she sail'd,
            Sail'd from this port.  Would Enoch have the place?
            And Enoch all at once assented to it,
            Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. 
              So now that the shadow of mischance appear'd
            No graver than as when some little cloud
            Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun,
            And isles a light in the offing: yet the wife--
            When he was 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!
            He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse--
            And yet to sell her--then with what she brought
            Buy goods and stores--set Annie forth in trade
            With all that seamen needed or their wives--
            So might she keep the house while he was gone.
            Should he not trade himself out yonder? go
            This voyage more than once? yea twice or thrice--
            As oft as needed--last, returning rich,
            Become the master of a larger craft,
            With fuller profits lead an easier life,
            Have all his pretty young ones educated,
            And pass his days in peace among his own. 
              Thus Enoch in his heart determined all:
            Then moving homeward came on Annie pale,
            Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born.
            Forward she started with a happy cry,
            And laid the feeble infant in his arms;
            Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs,
            Appraised his weight and fondled fatherlike,
            But had no heart to break his purposes
            To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke. 
              Then first since Enoch's golden ring had girt
            Her finger, Annie fought against his will:
            Yet not with brawling opposition she,
            But manifold entreaties, many a tear,
            Many a sad kiss by day and night renew'd
            (Sure that all evil would come out of it)
            Besought him, supplicating, if he cared
            For here or his dear children, not to go.
            He not for his own self caring but her,
            Her and her children, let her plead in vain;
            So grieving held his will, and bore it thro'. 
              For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend,
            Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand
            To fit their little streetward sitting-room
            With shelf and corner for the goods and stores.
            So all day long till Enoch's last at home,
            Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe,
            Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear
            Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd and rang,
            Till this was ended, and his careful hand,--
            The space was narrow,--having order'd all
            Almost as neat and close as Nature packs
            Her blossom or her seedling, paused; and he,
            Who needs would work for Annie to the last,
            Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. 
              And Enoch faced this morning of farewell
            Brightly and boldly.  All his Annie's fears,
            Save, as his Annie's, were a laughter to him.
            Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man
            Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery
            Where 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 God
            Will 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,--
            Nay--for I love him all the better for it--
            God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees
            And I will tell him tales of foreign parts,
            And make him merry, when I come home again.
            Come Annie, come, cheer up before I go.' 
              Him running on thus hopefully she heard,
            And almost hoped herself; but when he turn'd
            The current of his talk to graver things
            In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing
            On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard,
            Heard and not heard him; as the village girl,
            Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring,
            Musing on him that used to fill it for her,
            Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. 
              At length she spoke `O Enoch, you are wise;
            And yet for all your wisdom well know I
            That I shall look upon your face no more.' 
              `Well then,' said Enoch, `I shall look on yours.
            Annie, the ship I sail in passes here
            (He named the day) get you a seaman's glass,
            Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears.' 
              But when the last of those last moments came,
            `Annie my girl, cheer up, be comforted,
            Look to the babes, and till I come again,
            Keep everything shipshape, for I must go.
            And fear no more for me; or if you fear
            Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.
            Is He not yonder in those uttermost
            Parts of the morning? if I flee to these
            Can I go from Him? and the sea is His,
            The sea is His: He made it.' 
                Enoch rose,
            Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife,
            And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones;
            But for the third, sickly one, who slept
            After a night of feverous wakefulness,
            When Annie would have raised him Enoch said
            `Wake him not; let him sleep; how should this child
            Remember this?' and kiss'ed him in his cot.
            But Annie from her baby's forehead clipt
            A tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept
            Thro' all his future; but now hastily caught
            His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way. 
              She when the day, that Enoch mention'd, came,
            Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain: perhaps
            She could not fix the glass to suit her eye;
            Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous;
            She saw him not: and while he stood on deck
            Waving, the moment and the vessel past. 
              Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail
            She watch'd it, and departed weeping for him;
            Then, 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 bred
            To barter, nor compensating the want
            By shrewdness, neither capable of lies,
            Nor asking overmuch and taking less,
            And still foreboding `what would Enoch say?'
            For more than once, in days of difficulty
            And pressure, had she sold her wares for less
            Than what she gave in buying what she sold:
            She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it; and thus,
            Expectant of that news that never came,
            Gain'd for here own a scanty sustenance,
            And lived a life of silent melancholy. 
              Now the third child was sickly-born and grew
            Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it
            With all a 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 tell
            What 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,
            Philip'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,
            Past 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,
            Cared 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
            `Favor from one so sad and so forlorn
            As 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,
            Enoch, your husband: I have ever said
            You chose the best among us--a strong man:
            For where he fixt his heart he set his hand
            To do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro'.
            And wherefore did he go this weary way,
            And leave you lonely? not to see the world--
            For pleasure?--nay, but for the wherewithal
            To give his babes a better bringing-up
            Than his had been, or yours: that was his wish.
            And if he come again, vext will he be
            To find the precious morning hours were lost.
            And it would vex him even in his grave,
            If he could know his babes were running wild
            Like colts about the waste.  So Annie, now--
            Have we not known each other all our lives?
            I do beseech you by the love you bear
            Him and his children not to say me nay--
            For, if you will, when Enoch comes again
            Why then he shall repay me--if you will,
            Annie--for I am rich and well-to-do.
            Now 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 wall
            Answer'd `I cannot look you in the face;
            I seem so foolish and so broken down.
            When you came in my sorrow broke me down;
            And now I think your kindness breaks me down;
            But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me:
            He will repay you: money can be repaid;
            Not kindness such as yours.' 
                       And Philip ask'd
            `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 head
            Caught at his hand and wrung it passionately,
            And past into the little garth beyond.
            So lifted up in spirit he moved away. 
              Then Philip put the boy and girl to school,
            And bought them needful books, and everyway,
            Like one who does his duty by his own,
            Made himself theirs; and tho' for 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 sent
            Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit,
            The late and early roses from his wall,
            Or conies from the down, and now and then,
            With some pretext of fineness in the meal
            To save the offence of charitable, flour
            From his tall mill that whistled on the waste. 
              But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind:
            Scarce could the woman when he came upon her,
            Out of full heart and boundless gratitude
            Light on a broken word to thank him with.
            But Philip was her children's all-in-all;
            From distant corners of the street they ran
            To greet his hearty welcome heartily;
            Lords of his house and of his mill were they;
            Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs
            Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him
            And call'd him Father Philip.  Philip gain'd
            As Enoch lost; for Enoch seem'd to them
            Uncertain as a vision or a dream,
            Faint as a figure seen in early dawn
            Down at the far end of an avenue,
            Going we know not where: and so ten years,
            Since Enoch left his hearth and native land,
            Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came. 
              It chanced one evening Annie's children long'd
            To go with others, nutting to the wood,
            And Annie would go with them; then they begg'd
            For 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;
            But when the children pluck'd at him to go,
            He laugh'd, and yielding readily to their wish,
            For was not Annie with them? and they went. 
              But after scaling half the weary down,
            Just where the prone edge of the wood began
            To feather toward the hollow, all her force
            Fail'd her; and sighing `let me rest' she said.
            So Philip rested with her well-content;
            While all the younger ones with jubilant cries
            Broke from their elders, and tumultuously
            Down thro' the whitening hazels made a plunge
            To the bottom, and dispersed, and beat or broke
            The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away
            Their tawny clusters, crying to each other
            And calling, here and there, about the wood. 
              But Philip sitting at her side forgot
            Her presence, and remember'd one dark hour
            Here in this wood, when like a wounded life
            He crept into the shadow: at last he said
            Lifting his honest forehead `Listen, Annie,
            How merry they are down yonder in the wood.'
            `Tired, Annie?' for she did not speak a word.
            `Tired?' but her face had fall'n upon her hands;
            At which, as with a kind anger in him,
            `The ship was lost' he said `the ship was lost!
            No more of that! why should you kill yourself
            And make them orphans quite?'  And Annie said
            `I thought not of it: but--I known not why--
            Their voices make me feel so solitary.' 
              Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke.
            `Annie, there is a thing upon my mind,
            And it has been upon my mind so long,
            That tho' I know not when it first came there,
            I know that it will out at last.  O Annie,
            It is beyond all hope, against all chance,
            That he who left you ten long years ago
            Should still be living; well then--let me speak:
            I grieve to see you poor and wanting help:
            I cannot help you as I wish to do
            Unless--they say that women are so quick--
            Perhaps you know what I would have you know--
            I wish you for my wife.  I fain would prove
            A father to your children: I do think
            They love me as a father: I am sure
            That I love them as if they were mine own;
            And I believe, if you were fast my wife,
            That after all these sad uncertain years,
            We might be still as happy as God grants
            To any of His creatures.  Think upon it:
            For I am well-to-do--no kin, no care,
            No burthen, save my care for you and yours:
            And we have known each other all our lives,
            And I have loved you longer than you know.' 
              Then answer'd Annie; tenderly she spoke:
            `You have been as God's good angel in our house.
            God bless you for it, God reward you for it,
            Philip, with something happier than myself.
            Can one live twice? can you be ever loved
            As Enoch was? what is it that you ask?'
            `I am content' he answer'd `to be loved
            A little after Enoch.'  `O' 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:
            O wait a little!'  Philip sadly said
            `Annie, as I have waited all my life
            I well may wait a little.'  `Nay' she cried
            `I am bound: you have my promise--in a year:
            Will you not bide your year as I bide mine?'
            And Philip answer'd `I will bide my year.' 
              Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up
            Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day
            Pass from the Danish barrow overhead;
            Then fearing night and chill for Annie rose,
            And sent his voice beneath him thro' the wood.
            Up came the children laden with their spoil;
            Then all descended to the port, and there
            At Annie's door he paused and gave his hand,
            Saying gently `Annie, when I spoke to you,
            That was your hour of weakness.  I was wrong.
            I am always bound to you, but you are free.'
            Then Annie weeping answer'd `I am bound.' 
              She spoke; and in one moment as it were,
            While yet she went about her household ways,
            Ev'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.
            `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 eyes
            Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice
            Shaking 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 delayingly
            With many a scarce-believable excuse,
            Trying his truth and his long-sufferance,
            Till half-another year had slipt away. 
              By this the lazy gossips of the port,
            Abhorrent of a calculation crost,
            Began to chafe as at a personal wrong.
            Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her;
            Some that she but held off to draw him on;
            And others laugh'd at her and Philip too,
            As simple folks that knew not their own minds;
            And one, in whom all evil fancies clung
            Like serpent eggs together, laughingly
            Would hint a worse in either.  Her own son
            Was silent, tho' he often look'd his wish;
            But evermore the daughter prest upon her
            To wed the man so dear to all of them
            And lift the household out of poverty;
            And Philip's rosy face contracting grew
            Careworn and wan; and all these things fell on her
            Sharp as reproach. 
              At last one night it chanced
            That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly
            Pray'd for a sign `my Enoch is he gone?'
            Then compass'd round by the blind wall of night
            Brook'd not the expectant terror of her heart,
            Started from bed, and struck herself a light,
            Then desperately seized the holy Book,
            Suddenly set it wide to find a sign,
            Suddenly put her finger on the text,
            `Under a palmtree.'  That was nothing to her:
            No meaning there: she closed the book and slept:
            When lo! her Enoch sitting on a height,
            Under a palmtree, over him the Sun:
            `He is gone' she thought `he is happy, he is singing
            Hosanna in the highest: yonder shines
            The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms
            Whereof the happy people strowing cried
            "Hosanna in the highest!"'  Here she woke,
            Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him
            `There is no reason why we should not wed.'
            `Then for God's sake,' he answer'd, `both our sakes,
            So you will wed me, let it be at once.' 
              So these were wed and merrily rang the bells,
            Merrily rang the bells and they were wed.
            But never merrily beat Annie's heart.
            A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path,
            She knew not whence; a whisper in her ear,
            She knew not what; nor loved she to be left
            Alone at home, nor ventured out alone.
            What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd, often
            Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch,
            Fearing to enter: Philip thought he knew:
            Such doubts and fears were common to her state,
            Being with child: but when her child was born,
            Then her new child was as herself renew'd,
            Then the new mother came about her heart,
            Then her good Philip was her all-in-all,
            And that mysterious instinct wholly died. 
              And where was Enoch? prosperously sail'd
            The ship `Good Fortune,' tho' at setting forth
            The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, shook
            And almost overwhelm'd her, yet unvext
            She slipt across the summer of the world,
            Then after a long tumble about the Cape
            And frequent interchange of foul and fair,
            She passing thro' the summer world again,
            The breath of heaven came continually
            And sent her sweetly by the golden isles,
            Till silent in her oriental haven. 
              There Enoch traded for himself, and bought
            Quaint monsters for the market of those times,
            A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. 
              Less lucky her home-voyage: at first indeed
            Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day,
            Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figure-head
            Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her bows:
            Then follow'd calms, and then winds variable,
            Then baffling, a long course of them; and last
            Storm, such as drove her under moonless heavens
            Till hard upon the cry of `breakers' came
            The crash of ruin, and the loss of all
            But Enoch and two others.  Half the night,
            Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken spars,
            These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn
            Rich, but loneliest in a lonely sea.

No want was there of human sustenance,
            Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots;
            Nor save for pity was it hard to take
            The helpless life so wild that it was tame.
            There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge
            They built, and thatch'd with leaves of palm, a hut,
            Half 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,
            Lay lingering out a three-years' death-in-life.
            They could not leave him.  After he was gone,
            The two remaining found a fallen stem;
            And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself,
            Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell
            Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone.
            In those two deaths he read God's warning `wait.' 
              The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns
            And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven,
            The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes,
            The lightning flash of insect and of bird,
            The lustre of the long convolvuluses
            That coil'd around the stately stems, and ran
            Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows
            And glories of the broad belt of the world,
            All these he saw; but what he fain had seen
            He could not see, the kindly human face,
            Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard
            The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl,
            The league-long roller thundering on the reef,
            The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'd
            And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep
            Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave,
            As down the shore he ranged, or all day long
            Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge,
            A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail:
            No sail from day to day, but every day
            The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts
            Among the palms and ferns and precipices;
            The blaze upon the waters to the east;
            The blaze upon his island overhead;
            The blaze upon the waters to the west;
            Then the great stars that globed themselves in Heaven,
            The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again
            The scarlet shafts of sunrise--but no sail. 
              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 moved
            Before him haunting him, or he himself
            Moved haunting people, things and places, known
            Far in a darker isle beyond the line;
            The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house,
            The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes,
            The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall,
            The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill
            November dawns and dewy-glooming downs,
            The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves,
            And the low moan of leaden-color'd seas. 
              Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears,
            Tho' faintly, merrily--far and far away--
            He heard the pealing of his parish bells;
            Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, started up
            Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle
            Return'd upon him, had not his poor heart
            Spoken with That, which being everywhere
            Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem all alone,
            Surely the man had died of solitude. 
              Thus over Enoch's early-silvering head
            The sunny and rainy seasons came and went
            Year after year.  His hopes to see his own,
            And pace the sacred old familiar fields,
            Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doom
            Came suddenly to an end.  Another ship
            (She wanted water) blown by baffling winds,
            Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course,
            Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she lay:
            For since the mate had seen at early dawn
            Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle
            The silent water slipping from the hills,
            They sent a crew that landing burst away
            In search of stream or fount, and fill'd the shores
            With clamor.  Downward from his mountain gorge
            Stept the long-hair'd long-bearded solitary,
            Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad,
            Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it seem'd,
            With inarticulate rage, and making signs
            They knew not what: and yet he led the way
            To where the rivulets of sweet water ran;
            And ever as he mingled with the crew,
            And heard them talking, his long-bounden tongue
            Was loosen'd, till he made them understand;
            Whom, when their casks were fill'd they took aboard:
            And there the tale he utter'd brokenly,
            Scarce credited at first but more and more,
            Amazed and melted all who listen'd to it:
            And clothes they gave him and free passage home;
            But oft he work'd among the rest and shook
            His isolation from him.  None of these
            Came from his county, or could answer him,
            If question'd, aught of what he cared to know.
            And dull the voyage was with long delays,
            The vessel scarce sea-worthy; but evermore
            His fancy fled before the lazy wind
            Returning, till beneath a clouded moon
            He like a lover down thro' all his blood
            Drew in the dewy meadowy morning-breath
            Of England, blown across her ghostly wall:
            And that same morning officers and men
            Levied a kindly tax upon themselves,
            Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it:
            Then moving up the coast they landed him,
            Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd before. 
              There Enoch spoke no word to anyone,
            But homeward--home--what home? had he a home?
            His home, he walk'd.  Bright was that afternoon,
            Sunny 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 right
            Of wither'd holt or tilth or pasturage.
            On the nigh-naked tree the Robin piped
            Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping haze
            The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down.
            Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom;
            Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted light
            Flared on him, and he came upon the place. 
              Then down the long street having slowly stolen,
            His heart foreshadowing all calamity,
            His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd the home
            Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes
            In those far-off seven happy years were born;
            But finding neither light nor murmur there
            (A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) crept
            Still downward thinking `dead or dead to me!' 
              Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went,
            Seeking a tavern which of old he knew,
            A front of timber-crost antiquity,
            So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old,
            He thought it must have gone; but he was gone
            Who kept it; and his widow, Miriam Lane,
            With daily-dwindling profits held the house;
            A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now
            Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men.
            There Enoch rested silently many days. 
              But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous,
            Nor let him be, but often breaking in,
            Told him, with other annals of the port,
            Not knowing--Enoch was so brown, so bow'd,
            So broken--all the story of his house.
            His 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 birth
            Of Philip's child: and o'er his countenance
            No shadow past, nor motion: anyone,
            Regarding, well had deem'd he felt the tale
            Less than the teller: only when she closed
            `Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost'
            He, shaking his gray head pathetically,
            Repeated muttering `cast away and lost;'
            Again in deeper inward whispers `lost!' 
                But Enoch yearn'd to see her face again;
            `If I might look on her sweet face gain
            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 Philip's dwelling fronted on the street,
            The latest house to landward; but behind,
            With one small gate that open'd 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. 
              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. 
              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 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,--
            Then 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'd
            To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry,
            Which in one moment, like the blast of doom,
            Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. 
              He therefore turning softly like a thief,
            Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot,
            And feeling all along the garden-wall,
            Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found,
            Crept to the gate, and 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 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 hence?
            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 no to break in upon her peace.
            My children too! must I not speak to these?
            They know me not.  I should betray myself.
            Never: not 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,
            Kept him a living soul.  `This miller's wife'
            He said to Miriam `that you told me of,
            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,
            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 loved 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.'
            `Dead' clamor'd the good woman `hear him talk!
            I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round.'
            `Swear' add 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.'  Enoch said again
            `My God has bow'd me down to what I am;
            My grief and solitude have broken me;
            Nevertheless, know that I am he
            Who married--but that name has twice been changed--
            I married her who married Philip Ray.
            Sit, listen.'  Then he told her of his voyage,
            His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back,
            His gazing in on Annie, his resolve,
            And how he kept it.  As the woman heard,
            Fast 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-bounded she forbore,
            Saying only `See your bairns before you go!
            Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden,' and arose
            Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung
            A moment on her words, but then replied. 
              `Woman, disturb me not now at the last,
            But let me hold my purpose till I die.
            Sit down again; mark me and understand,
            While I have power to speak.  I charge you now,
            When you shall see her, tell her that I died
            Blessing her, praying for her, loving her;
            Save for the bar between us, loving her
            As when she laid her head beside my own.
            And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw
            So like her mother, that my latest breath
            Was spent in blessing her and praying for her.
            And tell my son that I died blessing him.
            And say to Philip that I blest him too;
            He never meant us any thing but good.
            But if my children care to see me dead,
            Who hardly saw 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.

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