English Narrative Poems

by Unknown

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.