Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand,

His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face
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 life
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, And merrily ran the years, seven happy years, Seven happy years of health and competence, And mutual love and honourable toil;

With children; first a daughter. In him woke,

With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish

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,

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, and his face,
Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter gales,
Not only to the market-cross were known,
But in the leafy lanes behind the down,

Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp,

And peacock-yewtree of the lonely Hall,

Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering.

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 mast

In harbour, 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 trade

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 evermore
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,

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?

And Enoch all at once assented to it,

Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer.

No

So now that shadow of mischance appear'd

graver than as when some little cloud Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun,

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!
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.
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,

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.

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 fatherlike,
But had no heart to break his purposes

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,
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