English Narrative Poems Part 12

I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts Do shape themselves within me, more and more, Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills, 245 Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother Conjectures of the features of her child Ere it is born: her child!--a shudder comes Across me: never child be born of me, 250 Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes!

"O mother, hear me yet before I die.

Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me Walking the cold and starless road of death 255 Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love With the Greek woman.[201] I will rise and go Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth Talk with the wild Ca.s.sandra,[202] for she says A fire dances before her, and a sound 260 Rings ever in her ears of armed men.

What this may be I know not, but I know That, wheresoe'er I am by night and day, All earth and air seem only burning fire."

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 cl.u.s.ter; then a moulder'd church; and higher A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill; 5 And high in heaven behind it a gray down With Danish barrows[203]; and a hazelwood, By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes Green in a cuplike hollow of the down.

Here on this beach a hundred years ago, 10 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 s.h.i.+pwreck, play'd 15 Among the waste and lumber of the sh.o.r.e, Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fis.h.i.+ng-nets, Anchors of rusty fluke,[204] and boats updrawn; And built their castles of dissolving sand To watch them overflow'd, or following up 20 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, 25 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 30 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, 35 And 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 sun Was felt by either, either fixt his heart On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love, 40 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, 45 To h.o.a.rd 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 50 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: 55 And all men 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. 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) 65 An hour behind; but as he climb'd the hill, Just where the p.r.o.ne 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 70 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 75 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, 80 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 n.o.ble wish 85 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, 90 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,[206] and his face, Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter gales, 95 Not only to the market-cross were known, But in the leafy lanes behind the down, Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp[207]

And peac.o.c.k-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 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 105 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 110 Taking her bread and theirs: and on him fell, Altho' a grave and staid G.o.d-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 115 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 s.h.i.+p Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, 120 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? 125 And Enoch all at once a.s.sented to it, Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer.

So now that shadow of mischance appear'd No graver than as when some little cloud Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 130 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! 135 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. 140 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, 145 Have all his pretty young ones educated, And pa.s.s 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. 150 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 father-like, But had no heart to break his purposes 155 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, 160 Many a sad kiss by day by night renew'd (Sure that all evil would come out of it) Besought him, supplicating, if he cared For her or his dear children, not to go.

He not for his own self caring but her, 165 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 170 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, 175 Till this was ended, and his careful hand,-- The s.p.a.ce 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, 180 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 G.o.d-fearing man 185 Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery Where G.o.d-in-man is one with man-in-G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 190 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,-- 195 Nay--for I love him all the better for it-- G.o.d 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." 200

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 fas.h.i.+on roughly sermonizing On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard, 205 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; 210 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.[209]

Annie, the s.h.i.+p I sail in pa.s.ses here (He named the day), get you a seaman's gla.s.s, 215 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 s.h.i.+pshape, for I must go. 220 And fear no more for me; or if you fear Cast all your cares on G.o.d; 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, 225 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, the sickly one, who slept After a night of feverous wakefulness, 230 When Annie would have raised him Enoch said, "Wake him not; let him sleep; how should the child Remember this?" and kiss'd him in his cot.

But Annie from her baby's forehead clipt A tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept 235 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 gla.s.s, but all in vain: perhaps She could not fix the gla.s.s to suit her eye; 240 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 vanis.h.i.+ng sail She watch'd it, and departed weeping for him; 245 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, 250 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: 255 She 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 grew 260 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 265 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, 270 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, 275 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, 280 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 pa.s.sion in her moan'd reply, 285 "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, 290 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, 295 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 300 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?-- 305 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. 310 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. 315 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 320 "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 pa.s.sionately, 325 And 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, 330 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, 335 The late and early roses from his wall, Or conies[211] 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. 340

But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind: Scarce could the woman when he came upon her, Out of full heart and boundless grat.i.tude Light on a broken word to thank him with.

But Philip was her children's all-in-all; 345 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 pa.s.sive ear with petty wrongs Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him, 350 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, 355 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, 360 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; 365 But 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 p.r.o.ne edge of the wood began[212] 370 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 375 Down thro' the whitening hazels made a plunge To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away Their tawny cl.u.s.ters, crying to each other And calling, here and there, about the wood. 380

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, 385 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 of anger in him, "The s.h.i.+p was lost," he said, "the s.h.i.+p was lost! 390 No more of that! why should you kill yourself And make them orphans quite?" And Annie said "I thought not of it: but--I know not why-- Their voices make me feel so solitary."