Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day
Pass from the Danish barrow overhead;

Then fearing night and chill for Annie rose,
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 gentlyAnnie, when I spoke to you,
That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong.
I am always bound to you, but you are free.'
Then Annie weeping answer'd 'I am bound.'

She spoke; and in one moment as it were, While yet she went about her household ways, 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. "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 eyes
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 delayingly

With many a scarce-believable excuse,

Trying his truth and his long-sufferance,

Till half-another year had slipt away.

By this the lazy gossips of the port,

Abhorrent of a calculation crost,

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 laugh'd at her and Philip too,

As simple folk that knew not their own minds

And one, in whom all evil fancies clung

Like serpent 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 her

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 her Sharp as reproach.

At last one night it chanced

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,

Then desperately seized the holy Book,

Suddenly set it wide to find a sign,

Suddenly put her finger on the text,

'Under a palmtree.' That was nothing to her:

No meaning there she closed the Book and slept :

When lo! her Enoch sitting on a height,

Under a palmtree, 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 palms

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, 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,
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,
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,
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, roughly ridging eastward, shook
And almost overwhelm'd her, yet unvext
She slipt across the summer of the world,
Then after a long tumble about the Cape
And frequent interchange of foul and fair,
She passing thro' the summer world again,
The breath of heaven came continually