yearn'd to see her face again;
   'If I might look on her sweet face gain
   And know that she is happy.' So the thought
   Haunted and harass'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,
   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 passage, till he madly strikes
   Against it, and beats out his weary life.

    For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street,
  The latest house to landward; but behind,
  With one small gate that open'd on the waste,
  Flourish'd a little garden square and wall'd:
  And in it throve an ancient evergreen,
  A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk
  Of shingle, and a walk divided it:
  But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole
  Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence
  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
  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
  Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring
  To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy 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,
  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
  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,—
  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,
  Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth.

    He therefore turning softly like a thief,
  Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot,
  And feeling all along the garden-wall,
  Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found,
  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 prone he dug
  His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd.

    'Too hard to bear! why did they take me hence?
  O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou
  That didst uphold me on my lonely isle,
  Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness
  A little longer! aid me, give me strength
  Not to tell her, never to let her know.
  Help me no to break in upon her peace.
  My children too! must I not speak to these?
  They know me not. I should betray myself.
  Never: not 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,
  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
  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'
  He said to Miriam 'that you told me of,
  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
  '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
  To make the boatmen fishing-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,
  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
  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
  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,
  Then may she learn I loved 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.'
  'Dead' clamor'd the good woman 'hear him talk!
  I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round.'
  'Swear' add Enoch sternly 'on the book.'
  And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore.
  Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her,
  '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;
  '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.
  'You Arden, you! nay,—sure he was a foot
  Higher than you be.' Enoch said again
  'My God has bow'd me down to what I am;
  My grief and solitude have broken me;
  Nevertheless, know that I am he
  Who married—but that name has twice been changed—
  I married her who married Philip Ray.
  Sit, listen.' Then he told her of his voyage,
  His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back,
  His gazing in on Annie, his resolve,
  And how he kept it. As the woman heard,
  Fast flow'd the current of her easy tears,
  While in her heart she yearn'd incessantly
  To rush