"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.