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Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.
Parts of the morning ? if I flee to these 225 Can I
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, the sickly one, who slept 230 After a night of feverous wakefulness,
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 235 A tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept
Thro' all his future; but now hastily caught
She when the day, that Enoch mention'd, came, Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain : perhaps 240 She could not fix the glass to suit her eye;
Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous;
Ev’n to the last dip of the vanishing sail 245 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 222–226. The use of Bible language at this moment is quite in harmony with Enoch's character.
To barter, nor compensating the want 250 By shrewdness, neither capable of lies,
Nor asking overmuch and taking less,
had she sold her wares for less 253 Than what she gave in buying what she sold :
She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it; and thus,
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, 265 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,
Past thro' the solitary room in front,
Enter'd ; but Annie, seated with her grief, 280 Fresh from the burial of her little one,
Cared not to look on any human face,
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'. 295 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. 300 And if he come again, vext will. he be
To find the precious morning hours were lost.
Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now 305 Have we not known each other all our lives?
I do beseech you by the love you bear
Why then he shall repay me — if you will, 310 Annie for I am rich and well-to-do.
Now let me put the boy and girl to school:
Then Annie with her brows against the wall
my sorrow broke me down; And now I think
kindness breaks me down; But Enoch lives ; that is borne in on me;
He will repay you: money can be repaid ; 320 Not kindness such as yours.”
you came in
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
And past into the little garth beyond.
Then Philip put the boy and girl to school, And bought them needful books, and every way, 330 Like one who does his duty by his own,
Made himself theirs ; and tho’ for Annie's sake,
And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent 335 Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit,
The late and early roses from his wall,
To save the offence of charitable, flour
339. To make it seem not like a gift of charity.
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. 345 But Philip was her children's all-in-all;
From distant corners of the street they ran
Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs
And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gain'd
Faint as a figure seen in early dawn 355 Down at the far end of an avenue,
Going we know not where : and so ten years,
It chanced one evening Annie's children long'd 360 To go with others nutting to the wood,
And Annie would go with them; then they begg’d
Blanch'd with his mill, they found; and saying to him, 365“ Come with us, Father Philip,” he denied ;
But when the children pluck'd at him to go,
But after scaling half the weary down, 370 Just where the prone edge of the wood began
370. The repetition here of the phrase in line 67 is one of the instances of the device used in the poem to bind together the