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.
But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous, 700
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.
His baby’s death, her growing poverty, 705