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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 225 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, 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
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 240 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 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,
And still foreboding“ what would Enoch say?"
For more than once, in days of difficulty
And
pressure,

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,
Expectant of that news which never came,
Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance,
And lived a life of silent melancholy.

260

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.

270

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,
275 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, 280 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.

285

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:

290

“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.
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 305 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, 310 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 ;
315 I seem so foolish and so broken down.
When

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 ; 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
825 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 every way, 330 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 335 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
340 From his tall mill that whistled on the waste.

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
To greet his hearty welcome heartily;
Lords of his house and of his mill were they;

Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs
350 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 355 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 360 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, 365“ Come with us, Father Philip,” he denied ;

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, 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

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