English Narrative Poems Part 13

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, 400 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-- 405 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; 410 And I believe, if you were fast my wife, That after all these sad uncertain years, We might be still as happy as G.o.d grants To any of His creatures. Think upon it: For I am well-to-do--no kin, no care, 415 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 G.o.d's good angel in our house. 420 G.o.d bless you for it, G.o.d reward you for it, Philip, with something happier than myself.

Can one love twice? can you be ever loved As Enoch was? what is it that you ask?"

"I am content," he answer'd, "to be loved 425 A 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: 430 Oh, 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?" 435 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 Pa.s.s from the Danish barrow overhead; Then, fearing night and chill for Annie, rose, 440 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, 445 That 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, 450 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. 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 eyes 460 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 465 With 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, 470 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 laughed at her and Philip too, As simple folk that knew not their own minds; 475 And one in whom all evil fancies clung Like serpent's eggs together, laughingly Would hint at worse in either. Her own son Was silent, tho' he often look'd his wish; But evermore the daughter prest upon her 480 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 him Sharp as reproach.

At last one night it chanced 485 That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly Pray'd for a sign, "my Enoch, is he gone?"

Then compa.s.s'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, 490 Then 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: 495 When 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 singing Hosanna in the highest: yonder s.h.i.+nes The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms 500 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 G.o.d's sake," he answer'd, "both our sakes, 505 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, 510 She knew not whence; a whisper on 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, 515 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, 520 Then her good Philip was her all-in-all, And that mysterious instinct wholly died.

And where was Enoch? prosperously sail'd The s.h.i.+p Good Fortune, tho' at setting forth The Biscay,[214] roughly ridging eastward, shook 525 And almost overwhelm'd her, yet unvext She slipt across the summer of the world,[215]

Then after a long tumble about the Cape And frequent interchange of foul and fair, She pa.s.sing thro' the summer world again, 530 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, 535 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: 540 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 545 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 the loneliest in a lonely sea.

No want was there of human sustenance, 550 Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nouris.h.i.+ng 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, 555 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, 560 Lay 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 fas.h.i.+on, fell 565 Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone.

In those two deaths he read G.o.d'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, 570 The lightning flash of insect and of bird, The l.u.s.tre of the long convolvuluses[217]

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,[218] 575 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, 580 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 sh.o.r.e he ranged, or all day long Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 585 A s.h.i.+pwreck'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; 590 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. 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 moved Before him, haunting him, or he himself Moved haunting people, things and places, known 600 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 peac.o.c.k-yewtree and the lonely Hall, The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill 605 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-- 610 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 615 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, 620 And pace the sacred old familiar fields, Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doom Came suddenly to an end. Another s.h.i.+p (She wanted water) blown by baffling winds, Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course, 625 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 630 In search of stream or fount, and fill'd the sh.o.r.es With 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, 635 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 640 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; 645 And clothes they gave him and free pa.s.sage 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. 650 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 655 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: 660 Then 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, 665 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 670 Of wither'd holt[220] or tilth[221] 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; 675 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 680 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!" 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 gone 690 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 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. 700 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 705 No shadow past, nor motion: any one, 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, 710 Repeated 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 again And know that she is happy." So the thought 715 Haunted and hara.s.s'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, 720 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 pa.s.sage, till he madly strikes 725 Against 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: 730 And in it throve an ancient evergreen, A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk Of s.h.i.+ngle,[223] and a walk divided it: But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence 735 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 740 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, 745 Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring To 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 saw The mother glancing often toward her babe, 750 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 755 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,-- 760 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, 765 Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth.

He therefore turning softly like a thief, Lest the harsh s.h.i.+ngle should grate underfoot, And feeling all along the garden wall, Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, 770 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 p.r.o.ne he dug 775 His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd.

"Too hard to bear! why did they take me thence?

O G.o.d Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness 780 A little longer! aid me, give me strength Not to tell her, never to let her know.

Help me not to break in upon her peace.

My children too! must I not speak to these?

They know me not. I should betray myself. 785 Never: no father's kiss for me--the girl So like her mother, and the boy, my son."

There speech and thought and nature fail'd a little And he lay tranced; but when he rose and paced Back toward his solitary home again, 790 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 795 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," 800 He said to Miriam, "that you spoke about, Has she no fear that her first husband lives?"

"Ay, ay, poor soul," said Miriam, "fear enow!

If you could tell her you had seen him dead, Why, that would be her comfort;" and he thought 805 "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 810 To make the boatmen fis.h.i.+ng-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, 815 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 820 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 825 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, 830 Then may she learn I lov'd her to the last."

He call'd aloud for Miriam Lane and said, "Woman, I have a secret--only swear, Before I tell you--swear upon the book Not to reveal it, till you see me dead." 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 gave A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry.