DORA

With farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. He often looked at them, And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife." Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,5 And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house, Thought not of Dora. Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said, "My son: I married late, but I would wish to see10 My grandchild on my knees before I die: And I have set my heart upon a match. Now therefore look to Dora; she is well To look to; thrifty too beyond her age. She is my brother's daughter: he and I15 Had once hard words, and parted, and he died In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora: take her for your wife; For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day, For many years." But William answer'd short:20 "I cannot marry Dora; by my life, I will not marry Dora." Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said: "You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus! But in my time a father's word was law,25 And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; Consider, William: take a month to think, And let me have an answer to my wish; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, And never more darken my doors again."30 But William answer'd madly; bit his lips, And broke away. The more he look'd at her The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father's house,35 And hired himself to work within the fields; And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd His niece and said: "My girl, I love you well;40 But if you speak with him that was my son, Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law." And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, "It cannot be: my uncle's mind will change!"45 And days went on, and there was born a boy To William; then distresses came on him; And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. But Dora stored what little she could save,50 And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died. Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought55 Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said: "I have obey'd my uncle until now, And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,60 And for your sake, the woman that he chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you: You know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest: let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye65 Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone." And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound70 That was unsown, where many poppies grew. Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And Dora would have risen and gone to him,75 But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. But when the morrow came, she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound; And made a little wreath of all the flowers80 That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then when the farmer pass'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said: "Where were you yesterday?85 Whose child is that? What are you doing here?" So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!" "And did I not," said Allan, "did I not Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again:90 "Do with me as you will, but take the child, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!" And Allan said, "I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there. I must be taught my duty, and by you!95 You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well—for I will take the boy; But go you hence, and never see me more." So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell100 At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field, More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bow'd down105 And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise110 To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy; But, Mary, let me live and work with you: He says that he will never see me more." Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be,115 That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother; therefore thou and I will go, And I will have my boy, and bring him home;120 And I will beg of him to take thee back: But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child, until he grows Of age to help us." So the women kiss'd125 Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. The door was off the latch: they peep'd, and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks,130 Like one that loved him: and the lad stretch'd out And babbled for the golden seal, that hung From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in: but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her:135 And Allan set him down, and Mary said: "O Father!—if you let me call you so— I never came a-begging for myself, Or William, or this child; but now I come For Dora: take her back; she loves you well.140 O Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said, He could not ever rue his marrying me— I had been a patient wife: but, Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus:145 'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turn'd His face and pass'd—unhappy that I am! But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight150 His father's memory; and take Dora back, And let all this be as it was before." So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room; And all at once the old man burst in sobs:—155 "I have been to blame—to blame. I have kill'd my son. I have kill'd him—but I loved him—my dear son. May God forgive me!—I have been to blame. Kiss me, my children." Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times160 And all the man was broken with remorse; And all his love came back a hundredfold; And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child, Thinking of William. So those four abode Within one house together; and as years165 Went forward, Mary took another mate; But Dora lived unmarried till her death.

[ŒNONE—1832]

There lies a vale in Ida,[176] lovelier Than all the valleys of Ionian [177] hills. The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen, Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand5 The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine In cataract after cataract to the sea. Behind the valley topmost Gargarus [178]10 Stands up and takes the morning: but in front The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal Troas [179] and Ilion's [180] column'd citadel, The crown of Troas. Hither came at noon Mournful Œnone, wandering forlorn15 Of Paris,[181] once her playmate on the hills. Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade20 Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff.

"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. For now the noonday quiet holds the hill: The grasshopper is silent in the grass:25 The lizard, with his shadow on the stone, Rests like a shadow, and the winds are dead. The purple flower droops: the golden bee Is lily-cradled: I alone awake. My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love,30 My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, And I am all aweary of my life.

"O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves35 That house the cold crown'd snake! O mountain brooks, I am the daughter of a River-God,[182] Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed,[183]40 A cloud that gather'd shape: for it may be That, while I speak of it, a little while My heart may wander from its deeper woe.

"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.45 I waited underneath the dawning hills, Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark, And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine: Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white hooved,50 Came up from reedy Simois [184] all alone.

"O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Far-off the torrent call'd me from the cleft: Far up the solitary morning smote The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes55 I sat alone: white-breasted like a star Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard skin Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hair Cluster'd about his temples like a God's: And his cheek brightened as the foam-bow brightens60 When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came.

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian [185] gold,65 That smelt ambrosially,[186] and while I look'd And listen'd, the full-flowing river of speech Came down upon my heart.

"'My own Œnone, Beautiful-brow'd Œnone, my own soul, Behold this fruit whose gleaming rind ingrav'n70 "For the most fair," would seem to award it thine As lovelier than whatever Oread [187] haunt The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace Of movement and the charm of married brows.'

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.75 He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, And added, 'This was cast upon the board, When all the full-faced presence of the Gods Ranged in the halls of Peleus [188]; whereupon Rose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due:80 But light-foot Iris [189] brought it yester-eve, Delivering, that to me, by common voice Elected umpire, Herè [190] comes to-day, Pallas [191] and Aphroditè,[192] claiming each This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave85 Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.'

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloud90 Had lost his way between the piney sides Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came, Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower. And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, Violet, amaracus,[193] and asphodel,[194]95 Lotos and lilies: and a wind arose, And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, This way and that, in many a wild festoon Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'.100

"O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. On the tree-tops a crested peacock [195] lit, And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'd Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom105 Coming thro' heaven like a light that grows Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made Proffer of royal power, ample rule Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue110 Wherewith to embellish state, 'from many a vale, And river-sunder'd champaign clothed with corn, Or labour'd mine undrainable of ore. Honour,' she said, 'and homage, tax and toll, From many an inland town and haven large,115 Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadel In glassy bays among her tallest towers.'

"O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Still she spake on and still she spake of power, 'Which in all action is the end of all;120 Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bred And throned of wisdom—from all neighbour crowns Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me, From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee, king-born,125 A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born, Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power Only, are likest gods, who have attain'd Rest in a happy place and quiet seats Above the thunder, with undying bliss130 In knowledge of their own supremacy.'

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power Flatter'd his spirit; but Pallas where she stood135 Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, The while, above, her clear and earnest eye Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek140 Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply.

"'Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, These three alone lead life to sovereign power. Yet not for power (power of herself Would come uncall'd for) but to live by law,145 Acting the law we live by without fear; And, because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.'

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Again she said: 'I woo thee not with gifts.150 Sequel of guerdon [196] could not alter me To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, So shalt thou find me fairest. Yet indeed, If gazing on divinity disrobed Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge, of fair,155 Unbias'd by self-profit, oh! rest thee sure, That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, So that my vigour wedded to thy blood, Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks,160 Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown will, Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, Commeasure perfect freedom.'

'Here she ceas'd, And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, 'O Paris,165 Give it to Pallas!' but he heard me not, Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me!

"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Idalian [197] Aphroditè beautiful,170 Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian [198] wells, With rosy slender fingers backward drew From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat And shoulder: from the violets her light foot175 Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form Between the shadows of the vine-bunches Floated the glowing sunlights as she moved.

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes,180 The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh Half-whisper'd in his ear, 'I promise thee The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.' She spoke and laugh'd: I shut my sight for fear: But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm,185 And I beheld great Herè's angry eyes, As she withdrew into the golden cloud, And I was left alone within the bower; And from that time to this I am alone, And I shall be alone until I die.190

"Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Fairest—why fairest wife? am I not fair? My love hath told me so a thousand times. Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, When I past by, a wild and wanton pard,[199]195 Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving is she? Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew200 Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains Flash in the pools of whirling Simois.

"O mother, hear me yet before I die. They came, they cut away my tallest pines, My tall dark pines, that plumed the craggy ledge205 High over the blue gorge, and all between The snowy peak and snow-white cataract Foster'd the callow eaglet—from beneath Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat210 Low in the valley. Never, never more Shall lone Œnone see the morning mist Sweep thro' them; never see them overlaid With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, Between the loud stream and the trembling stars.215

"O mother, hear me yet before I die. I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds, Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her The Abominable,[200] that uninvited came220 Into the fair Peleïan banquet-hall, And cast the golden fruit upon the board, And bred this change; that I might speak my mind, And tell her to her face how much I hate Her presence, hated both of Gods and men.225

"O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, In this green valley, under this green hill, Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone? Seal'd it with kisses? water'd it with tears?230 O happy tears, and how unlike to these! O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face? O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight? O death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, There are enough unhappy on this earth;235 Pass by the happy souls, that love to live; I pray thee, pass before my light of life, And shadow all my soul, that I may die. Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, Weigh heavy on my eyelids: let me die.240

"O mother, hear me yet before I die. 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 death255 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 Cassandra,[202] for she says A fire dances before her, and a sound260 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 cluster; 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 shipwreck, play'd15 Among the waste and lumber of the shore, Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets, Anchors of rusty fluke,[204] and boats updrawn; And built their castles of dissolving sand To watch them overflow'd, or following up20 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 made30 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 hoard 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 breathe50 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 prone 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 face70 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 life75 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 noble wish85 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 peacock-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 mast105 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 trade110 Taking her bread and theirs: and on him fell, Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man, Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night, To see his children leading evermore115 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 ship 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 assented 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 pass 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 purposes155 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-room170 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 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,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 God-fearing man185 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 God190 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— God 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 fashion 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 ship I sail in passes here (He named the day), get you a seaman's glass,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 shipshape, for I must go.220 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,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 kept235 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 She could not fix the glass 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 vanishing 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 grew260 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 tell265 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 passion 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 be300 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'd320 "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 passionately,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 gratitude 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 passive 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 prone 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 tumultuously375 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.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 ship was lost," he said, "the ship 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."

Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke.395 "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. Oh, Annie, It is beyond all hope, against all chance,400 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 quick—405 Perhaps you know what I would have you know— I 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;410 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,415 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.420 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 loved425 A little after Enoch." "Oh," she cried, Scared as it were, "dear Philip, wait a while: If Enoch comes—but Enoch will not come— Yet wait a year, a year is not so long: Surely I shall be wiser in a year:430 Oh, 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?"435 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,440 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,445 That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong. I am always bound to you, but you are free." Then Annie weeping answered, "I am bound."

She spoke; and in one moment as it were, While yet she went about her household ways,450 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.455 "Yes, if the nuts," he said, "be ripe again: Come out and see." But she—she put him off— So much to look to—such a change—a month— Give her a month—she knew that she was bound— A month—no more. Then Philip with his eyes460 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 delayingly465 With many a scarce-believable excuse, Trying his truth and his long-sufferance, Till half another year had slipped away.

By this the lazy gossips of the port, Abhorrent of a calculation crost,470 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 laughed at her and Philip too, As simple folk that knew not their own minds;475 And one in whom all evil fancies clung Like serpent's 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 her480 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 him Sharp as reproach. At last one night it chanced485 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,490 Then desperately seized the holy Book, Suddenly set it wide to find a sign, Suddenly put her finger on the text, "Under the palm-tree.[213]" That was nothing to her: No meaning there: she closed the Book and slept:495 When lo! her Enoch sitting on a height, Under a palm-tree, 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 palms500 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,505 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. But never merrily beat Annie's heart. A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path,510 She knew not whence; a whisper on her ear, She knew not what; nor loved she to be left Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd, often, Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch,515 Fearing to enter: Philip thought he knew: Such doubts and fears were common to her state, Being with child: but when her child was born, Then her new child was as herself renew'd, Then the new mother came about her heart,520 Then her good Philip was her all-in-all, And that mysterious instinct wholly died.

And where was Enoch? prosperously sail'd The ship Good Fortune, tho' at setting forth The Biscay,[214] roughly ridging eastward, shook525 And almost overwhelm'd her, yet unvext She slipt across the summer of the world,[215] Then after a long tumble about the Cape And frequent interchange of foul and fair, She passing thro' the summer world again,530 The breath of heaven came continually And sent her sweetly by the golden isles, Till silent in her oriental haven.

There Enoch traded for himself, and bought Quaint monsters for the market of those times,535 A gilded dragon, also, for the babes.

Less lucky her home-voyage: at first indeed Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day, Scarce-rocking her full-busted figure-head Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her bows:540 Then follow'd calms, and then winds variable, Then baffling, a long course of them; and last Storm, such as drove her under moonless heavens Till hard upon the cry of "breakers" came The crash of ruin, and the loss of all545 But Enoch and two others. Half the night, Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken spars, These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea.

No want was there of human sustenance,550 Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots; Nor save for pity was it hard to take The helpless life so wild that it was tame. There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge They built, and thatch'd with leaves of palm, a hut,555 Half hut, half native cavern. So the three, Set in this Eden of all plenteousness, Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content.

For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy, Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck,560 Lay lingering out a five-years' death-in-life. They could not leave him. After he was gone, The two remaining found a fallen stem [216]; And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself, Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell565 Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. In those two deaths he read God's warning, "Wait."

The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven, The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes,570 The lightning flash of insect and of bird, The lustre of the long convolvuluses [217] That coil'd around the stately stems, and ran Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows And glories of the broad belt of the world,[218]575 All these he saw; but what he fain had seen He could not see, the kindly human face, Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl, The league-long roller thundering on the reef,580 The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'd And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, As down the shore he ranged, or all day long Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge,585 A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail: No sail from day to day, but every day The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts Among the palms and ferns and precipices;590 The blaze upon the waters to the east: The blaze upon his island overhead; The blaze upon the waters to the west; Then the great stars that globed themselves in Heaven, The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again The scarlet shafts of sunrise—but no sail.595

There often as he watch'd or seem'd to watch, So still, the golden lizard on him paused, A phantom made of many phantoms moved Before him, haunting him, or he himself Moved haunting people, things and places, known600 Far in a darker isle beyond the line; The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house, The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes, The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall, The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill605 November dawns and dewy-glooming downs, The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves, And the low moan of leaden-color'd seas.

Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears, Tho' faintly, merrily—far and far away—610 He heard the pealing of his parish bells; Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, started up Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle Return'd upon him, had not his poor heart Spoken with That, which being everywhere615 Lets none who speaks with Him seem all alone, Surely the man had died of solitude.

Thus over Enoch's early-silvering head The sunny and rainy seasons came and went Year after year. His hopes to see his own,620 And pace the sacred old familiar fields, Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doom Came suddenly to an end. Another ship (She wanted water) blown by baffling winds, Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course,625 Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she lay: For since the mate had seen at early dawn Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle The silent water slipping from the hills, They sent a crew that landing burst away630 In search of stream or fount, and fill'd the shores With clamor. Downward from his mountain gorge [219] Stept the long-hair'd, long-bearded solitary, Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad, Muttering and mumbling, idiot-like it seem'd,635 With inarticulate rage, and making signs They knew not what: and yet he led the way To where the rivulets of sweet water ran; And ever as he mingled with the crew, And heard them talking, his long-bounden tongue640 Was loosen'd, till he made them understand; Whom, when their casks were fill'd they took aboard And there the tale he utter'd brokenly, Scarce-credited at first but more and more, Amazed and melted all who listen'd to it;645 And clothes they gave him and free passage home; But oft he work'd among the rest and shook His isolation from him. None of these Came from his county, or could answer him, If question'd, aught of what he cared to know.650 And dull the voyage was with long delays, The vessel scarce sea-worthy; but evermore His fancy fled before the lazy wind Returning, till beneath a clouded moon He like a lover down thro' all his blood655 Drew in the dewy meadowy morning-breath Of England, blown across her ghostly wall: And that same morning officers and men Levied a kindly tax upon themselves, Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it:660 Then moving up the coast they landed him, Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd before.

There Enoch spoke no word to any one, But homeward—home—what home? had he a home? His home, he walk'd. Bright was that afternoon,665 Sunny but chill; till drawn thro' either chasm, Where either haven open'd on the deeps, Roll'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the world in gray; Cut off the length of highway on before, And left but narrow breadth to left and right670 Of wither'd holt [220] or tilth [221] or pasturage. On the nigh-naked tree the robin piped Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping haze The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down: Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom;675 Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted light Flared on him, and he came upon the place.

Then down the long street having slowly stolen, His heart foreshadowing all calamity, His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd the home680 Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes In those far-off seven happy years were born; But finding neither light nor murmur there (A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) crept Still downward thinking, "dead, or dead to me!"685

Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went, Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, A front of timber-crost antiquity, So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old, He thought it must have gone; but he was gone690 Who kept it; and his widow, Miriam Lane, With daily-dwindling profits held the house; A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men. There Enoch rested silent many days.695

But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous, Nor let him be, but often breaking in, Told him, with other annals of the port, Not knowing—Enoch was so brown, so bow'd, So broken—all the story of his house.700 His baby's death, her growing poverty, How Philip put her little ones to school, And kept them in it, his long wooing her, Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth Of Philip's child: and o'er his countenance705 No shadow past, nor motion: any one, Regarding, well had deem'd he felt the tale Less than the teller; only when she closed, "Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost," He, shaking his gray head pathetically,710 Repeated muttering, "cast away and lost;" Again in deeper inward whispers, "lost!"

But Enoch yearned to see her face again; "If I might look on her sweet face again And know that she is happy." So the thought715 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,720 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 strikes725 Against it, and beats out his weary life.

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street, The latest [222] house to landward; but behind, With one small gate that open'd on the waste, Flourish'd a little garden square and wall'd:730 And in it throve an ancient evergreen, A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk Of shingle,[223] and a walk divided it: But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence735 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 saw740 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,745 Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy [224] 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,750 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 babe755 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,—760 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,765 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,770 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 dug775 His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd.

"Too hard to bear! why did they take me thence? O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness780 A little longer! aid me, give me strength Not to tell her, never to let her know. Help me not to break in upon her peace. My children too! must I not speak to these? They know me not. I should betray myself.785 Never: no 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,790 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 resolve795 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,"800 He said to Miriam, "that you spoke about, 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 thought805 "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 wrought810 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,815 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, gradually820 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 squall825 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,830 Then may she learn I lov'd 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."835 "Dead," clamor'd the good woman, "hear him talk; I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round." "Swear," added Enoch sternly, "on the book." And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore. Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her,840 "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:845 "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 foot850 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 you that I am he Who married—but that name has twice been changed—855 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,860 Fast flow'd the current of her easy tears, While in her heart she yearn'd incessantly To rush abroad all round the little haven, Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes; But awed and promise-bounden she forbore,865 Saying only, "See your bairns before you go! Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden," and arose Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung A moment on her words, but then replied:

"Woman, disturb me not now at the last,870 But let me hold my purpose till I die. Sit down again; mark me and understand, While I have power to speak. I charge you now When you shall see her, tell her that I died Blessing her, praying for her, loving her;875 Save for the bar between us, loving her As when she lay her head beside my own. And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw So like her mother, that my latest breath Was spent in blessing her and praying for her.880 And tell my son that I died blessing him. And say to Philip that I blest him too; He never meant us any thing but good. But if my children care to see me dead, Who hardly knew me living, let them come,885 I am their father; but she must not come, For my dead face would vex her after-life. And now there is but one of all my blood, Who will embrace me in the world-to-be: This hair is his: she cut it off and gave it,890 And I have borne it with me all these years, And thought to bear it with me to my grave; But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him, My babe in bliss: wherefore when I am gone, Take, give her this, for it may comfort her:895 It will moreover be a token to her, That I am he."

He ceased; and Miriam Lane Made such a voluble answer promising all, That once again he roll'd his eyes upon her Repeating all he wish'd, and once again900 She promised.

Then the third night after this, While Enoch slumber'd motionless and pale, And Miriam watch'd and dozed at intervals, There came so loud a calling of the sea, That all the houses in the haven rang.905 He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad, Crying with a loud voice "A sail! a sail! I am saved;" and so fell back and spoke no more.

So past the strong heroic soul away. And when they buried him the little port910 Had seldom seen a costlier funeral.

[THE REVENGE]

A Ballad of the Fleet

At Flores in the Azores [225] Sir Richard Grenville lay, And a pinnace like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away: 'Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!' Then sware Lord Thomas Howard [226]: 'Fore God I am no coward; But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear,5 And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?'

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: 'I know you are no coward; You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore.10 I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard, To these Inquisition [227] dogs and the devildoms of Spain.'

IIII

So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day, Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land15 Very carefully and slow, Men of Bideford [228] in Devon, And we laid them on the ballast down below; For we brought them all aboard, And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain,20 To the thumbscrew [229] and the stake [230] for the glory of the Lord.

He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight, With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. 'Shall we fight or shall we fly?25 Good Sir Richard, tell us now, For to fight is but to die! There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set.' And Sir Richard said again, 'We be all good English men. Let us bang these dogs of Seville,[231] the children of the devil,30 For I never turn'd my back upon Don [232] or devil yet.'

Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below; For half of her fleet to the right and half to the left were seen,35 And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane between.

Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks and laugh'd, Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft Running on and on, till delay'd By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred tons,40 And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns, Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd.

VII

And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloud Whence the thunderbolt will fall Long and loud,45 Four galleons [233] drew away From the Spanish fleet that day, And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, And the battle-thunder broke from them all.

VIII

But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and went50 Having that within her womb that had left her ill content; And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand, For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers, And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears When he leaps from the water to the land.55

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three. Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came, Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame; Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back withher dead and her shame.60 For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could fight us no more— God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?

For he said, 'Fight on! fight on!' Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck; And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone,65 With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, And he said 'Fight on! fight on!'

And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea,70 And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring; But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that we still could sting, So they watch'd what the end would be. And we had not fought them in vain, But in perilous plight were we,75 Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, And half of the rest of us maim'd for life In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife; And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent;80 And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, 'We have fought such a fight for a day and a night As may never be fought again! We have won great glory, my men!85 And a day less or more At sea or ashore, We die—does it matter when? Sink me the ship, Master Gunner—sink her, split her in twain! Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!'90

XII

And the gunner said 'Ay, ay,' but the seamen made reply: 'We have children, we have wives, And the Lord hath spared our lives. We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow.'95 And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.

XIII

And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last, And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace; But he rose upon their decks, and he cried:100 'I have fought for Queen and Faith like a gallant man and true; I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do: With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die!' And he fell upon their decks, and he died.

XIV

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true,105 And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap That he dared her with one little ship and his English few; Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, But they sank his body with honour down in the deep, And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthy alien crew,110 And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own; When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep, And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew,115 Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags, And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain, And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags To be lost evermore in the main.

[ROBERT BROWNING]

"HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS
FROM GHENT TO AIX."

[16 − −]

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,5 And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique [234] right,10 Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near Lokeren,[235] the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom,[236] a great yellow star came out to see;15 At Düffeld,[237] 'twas morning as plain as could be; And from Mecheln [238] church-steeple we heard the half-chime, So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"

At Aershot,[239] up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one,20 To stare through the mist at us galloping past, And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back25 For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence,—ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.30

By Hasselt,[240] Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, We'll remember at Aix"—for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,35 As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz [241] and past Tongres,[242] no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;40 Till over by Dalhem [243] a dome-spire sprang white, And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"

"How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight45 Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,[244] With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall. Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,50 Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. And all I remember is—friends flocking round55 As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.60

[INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP]

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon: A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; With neck out-thrust,[245] you fancy how,5 Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused [246] "My plans That soar, to earth may fall,10 Let once my army-leader Lannes [247] Waver at yonder wall,"— Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew15 Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy: You hardly could suspect—20 (So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace25 We've got you Ratisbon! The Marshal's in the market-place, And you'll be there anon To see your flag-bird [248] flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire,30 Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire.

The chief's eye flashed; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle's eye35 When her bruised eaglet breathes; "You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said: "I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead.40

[THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN]

A Child's Story

(Written for, and inscribed to, W. M. the Younger)

Hamelin [249] Town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied;5 But when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin, was a pity.

Rats!10 They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats,15 Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats.20

III

At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking: "'Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy; And as for our Corporation—shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine25 For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin! You hope, because you're old and obese, To find in the furry civic robe ease? Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking30 To find the remedy we're lacking, Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation.

An hour they sat in council;35 At length the Mayor broke silence: "For a guilder [250] I'd my ermine gown sell, I wish I were a mile hence! It's easy to bid one rack one's brain— I'm sure my poor head aches again,40 I've scratched it so, and all in vain. O for a trap, a trap, a trap!" Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber-door but a gentle tap? "Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?"45 (With the Corporation as he sat, Looking little though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister Than a too-long-opened oyster, Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous50 For a plate of turtle green and glutinous) "Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!"

"Come in!" the Mayor cried, looking bigger:55 And in did come the strangest figure! His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red, And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,60 And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in; There was no guessing his kith and kin: And nobody could enough admire65 The tall man and his quaint attire. Quoth one: "It's as my great grandsire, Starting up at the Trump of Doom's [251] tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"

He advanced to the council-table:70 And, "Please your honors," said he, "I'm able, By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep or swim or fly or run, After me so as you never saw!75 And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm, The mole and toad and newt and viper; And people call me the Pied Piper."[252] (And here they noticed round his neck80 A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of the self-same cheque; And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying As if impatient to be playing85 Upon this pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled.) "Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham,[253] Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;90 I eased in Asia the Nizam [254] Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats: And as for what your brain bewilders, If I can rid your town of rats Will you give me a thousand guilders?"95 "One? fifty thousand!"—was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

VII

Into the street the Piper stept, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept100 In his quiet pipe the while; Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled;105 And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.110 Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,115 Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives— Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing, And step by step they followed dancing,120 Until they came to the river Weser, Wherein all plunged and perished! —Save one who, stout as Julius Cæsar, Swam across and lived to carry (As he, the manuscript he cherished)125 To rat-land home his commentary:[255] Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And putting apples, wondrous ripe, Into a cider-press's gripe:130 And a moving away of pickle-tub boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter casks: And it seemed as if a voice135 (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out, 'O rats, rejoice! The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!'140 And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, Already staved, like a great sun shone Glorious scarce an inch before me, Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!' —I found the Weser rolling o'er me."145

VIII

You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. "Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles, Poke out the nests and block up the holes! Consult with carpenters and builders,150 And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats!"—when suddenly, up the face Of the Piper perked in the market-place, With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;155 So did the Corporation too. For council dinners made rare havoc With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; And half the money would replenish Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish.160 To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gypsy coat of red and yellow! "Beside," quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink, "Our business was done at the river's brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,165 And what's dead can't come to life, I think. So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something for drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke [256]; But as for the guilders, what we spoke170 Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty. A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"

The Piper's face fell, and he cried; "No trifling! I can't wait, beside!175 I've promised to visit by dinner time Bagdat, and accept the prime Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor:180 With him I proved no bargain-driver, With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver [257]! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe after another fashion."

"How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I brook185 Being worse treated than a Cook? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald [258]? You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst!"190

XII

Once more he stept into the street, And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning195 Never gave the enraptured air) There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling; Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,200 And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running. All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,205 Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

XIII

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry210 To the children merrily skipping by, —Could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. But how the Mayor was on the rack, And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,215 As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters! However, he turned from South to West, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,220 And after him the children pressed; Great was the joy in every breast. "He never can cross that mighty top! He's forced to let the piping drop, And we shall see our children stop!"225 When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced and the children followed, And when all were in to the very last,230 The door in the mountain-side shut fast. Did I say, all? No! One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say,—235 "It's dull in our town since my playmates left! I can't forget that I'm bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me. For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,240 Joining the town and just at hand, Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And everything was strange and new; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,245 And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honey-bees had lost their stings, And horses were born with eagles' wings: And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured,250 The music stopped and I stood still, And found myself outside the hill, Left alone against my will, To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more!"255

XIV

Alas, alas! for Hamelin! There came into many a burgher's pate A text which says that heaven's gate Opes to the rich at as easy rate As the needle's eye [259]takes a camel in!260 The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South, To offer the Piper, by word of mouth, Wherever it was men's lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he'd only return the way he went,265 And bring the children behind him. But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, And Piper and dancers were gone forever, They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated duly270 If, after the day of the month and year, These words did not as well appear, "And so long after what happened here On the Twenty-second of July, Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:"275 And the better in memory to fix The place of the children's last retreat, They called it the Pied Piper's Street— Where any one playing on pipe or tabor Was sure for the future to lose his labor.280 Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern To shock with mirth a street so solemn; But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column, And on the great church-window painted285 The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away, And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there's a tribe290 Of alien people who ascribe The outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbors lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison295 Into which they were trepanned Long time ago in a mighty band Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, But how or why, they don't understand.

So, Willy, let me and you be wipers300 Of scores out with all men—especially pipers! And, whether they pipe us free fróm rats or fróm mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise!

[HERVÉ RIEL]

On the sea and at the Hogue,[260] sixteen hundred ninety-two, Did the English fight the French,—woe to France! And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Rance, [261]5 With the English fleet in view.

'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville. Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all;10 And they signalled to the place "Help the winners of a race! Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick—or, quicker still, Here's the English can and will!"

III

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board;15 "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they: "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the 'Formidable' here with her twelve and eighty guns Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons,20 And with flow at full beside? Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!"25

Then was called a council straight, Brief and bitter the debate: "Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound [262]?30 Better run the ships aground!" (Ended Damfreville his speech.) "Not a minute more to wait! Let the Captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach!35 France must undergo her fate.

"Give the word!" But no such word Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these —A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate—first, second, third?40 No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete! But a simple Breton sailor pressed [263] by Tourville [264] for the fleet, A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese.[265]

And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel:45 "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell, 'Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for?50 Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way!55 Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this 'Formidable' clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well,60 Right to Solidor past Grève, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave, —Keel so much as grate the ground, Why, I've nothing but my life,—here's my head!" cries Hervé Riel.65

VII

Not a minute more to wait. "Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief. Captains, give the sailor place! He is Admiral, in brief.70 Still the north-wind, by God's grace! See the noble fellow's face As the big ship, with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound!75 See, safe through shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock, Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past,80 All are harbored to the last, And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!"—sure as fate, Up the English come—too late!

VIII

So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave85 On the heights o'erlooking Grève. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. "Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance90 As they cannonade away! 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance! Out burst all with one accord, "This is Paradise for Hell!95 Let France, let France's King Thank the man that did the thing!" What a shout, and all one word, "Hervé Riel!" As he stepped in front once more,100 Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before.

Then said Damfreville, "My friend, I must speak out at the end,105 Though I find the speaking hard. Praise is deeper than the lips: You have saved the King his ships, You must name your own reward. 'Faith, our sun was near eclipse!110 Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville."

Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke,115 As the honest heart laughed through Those frank eyes of Breton blue: "Since I needs must say my say, Since on board the duty's done, And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?—120 Since 'tis ask and have, I may— Since the others go ashore— Come! A good whole holiday! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!" That he asked and that he got,—nothing more.125

Name and deed alike are lost: Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing smack,130 In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris: rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank!135 You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel. So, for better and for worse, Hervé Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore!140

DORA

A Ballad of the Fleet

"HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWSFROM GHENT TO AIX."

[16 − −]

A Child's Story

(Written for, and inscribed to, W. M. the Younger)

"HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS
FROM GHENT TO AIX."