Not greatly care to lose; but rather think For which of us, who might be left, could speak Thy shadow still would glide from room to room, In hanging robe or vacant ornament, Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair. Thro' the thick night I hear the trumpet blow: Once mine, and strike him dead, and meet myself And while she grovell'd at his feet, For think not, tho' thou wouldst not love thy lord, She felt the King's breath wander o'er her neck, Thy lord has wholly lost his love for thee. I am not made of so slight elements. Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy shame. I hold that man the worst of public foes He paused, and in the pause she crept an inch "Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes, I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, I, whose vast pity almost makes me die To see thee, laying there thy golden head, And, in the darkness o'er her fallen head, Then, listening till those armed steps were gone, And while he spake to these his helm was lower'd, Then she stretch'd out her arms and cried aloud, The wrath which forced my thoughts on that fierce Went on in passionate utterance. The doom of treason and the flaming death And in the flesh thou hast sinn'd; and mine own Here looking down on thine polluted, cries "Gone-my lord! Gone thro' my sin to slay and to be slain ! No, nor by living can I live it down. The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to months, I must not dwell on that defeat of fame. I thought I could not breathe in that fine air I wanted warmth and color which I found It would have been my pleasure had I seen. Here her hand Grasp'd, made her veil her eyes: she look'd and saw All round her, weeping; and her heart was loosed Meek maidens, from the voices crying 'Shame.' And treat their loathsome hurts and heal mine own; She said they took her to themselves; and she "Ye know me then, that wicked one, who broke Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess lived O shut me round with narrowing nunnery-walls, For three brief years, and there, an Abbess, past ENOCH LONG lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm; Here on this beach a hundred years ago, A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff: But when the dawn of rosy childhood past, And the new warmth of life's ascending sun ARDEN. Was felt by either, either fixt his heart A carefuller in peril, did not breathe Then, on a golden autumn eventide, 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, While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas, Then came a change, as all things human change. And once when there, and clambering on a mast And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go? So now that shadow of mischance appear'd Thus Enoch in his heart determined all: But had no heart to break his purposes 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 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, 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 rising, 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 itAnd I will tell him tales of foreign parts, God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees 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, Remember this ?" and kiss'd him in his cot, 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 And pressure, had she sold her wares for less 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'. If he could know his babes were running wild Then Philip put the boy and girl to school, He oft denied his heart his dearest wish, 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 him call'd) 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 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 bent 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 of 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 know not whyTheir 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 quickPerhaps you know what I would have you knowI 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 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 A little after Enoch." "O," she cried, Scared as it were, "dear Philip, wait a while: If Enoch comes-but Enoch will not comeYet 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 offSo much to look to-such a change-a monthGive her a month-she knew that she was boundA 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 folk that knew not their own minds; And one, in whom all evil fancies clung Like serpent 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 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. |