FullReads

For thro’ that dawning gleam’d a kindlier hope
On Enoch thinking `after I am gone,
Then may she learn I loved her to the last.’
He call’d aloud for Miriam Lane and said
`Woman, I have a secret–only swear,
Before I tell you–swear upon the book
Not to reveal it, till you see me dead.’
`Dead’ clamor’d the good woman `hear him talk!
I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round.’
`Swear’ add Enoch sternly `on the book.’
And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore.
Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her,
`Did you know Enoch Arden of this town?’
`Know him?’ she said `I knew him far away.
Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street;
Held his head high, and cared for no man, he.’
Slowly and sadly Enoch answer’d her;
`His head is low, and no man cares for him.
I think I have not three days more to live;
I am the man.’ At which the woman gave
A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry.
`You Arden, you! nay,–sure he was a foot
Higher than you be.’ Enoch said again
`My God has bow’d me down to what I am;
My grief and solitude have broken me;
Nevertheless, know that I am he
Who married–but that name has twice been changed–
I married her who married Philip Ray.
Sit, listen.’ Then he told her of his voyage,
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back,
His gazing in on Annie, his resolve,
And how he kept it. As the woman heard,
Fast flow’d the current of her easy tears,
While in her heart she yearn’d incessantly
To rush abroad all round the little haven,
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes;
But awed and promise-bounded she forbore,
Saying only `See your bairns before you go!
Eh, let me fetch ’em, Arden,’ and arose
Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung
A moment on her words, but then replied.

`Woman, disturb me not now at the last,
But let me hold my purpose till I die.
Sit down again; mark me and understand,
While I have power to speak. I charge you now,
When you shall see her, tell her that I died
Blessing her, praying for her, loving her;
Save for the bar between us, loving her
As when she laid her head beside my own.
And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw
So like her mother, that my latest breath
Was spent in blessing her and praying for her.
And tell my son that I died blessing him.
And say to Philip that I blest him too;
He never meant us any thing but good.
But if my children care to see me dead,
Who hardly saw me living, let them come,
I am their father; but she must not come,
For my dead face would vex her after-life.
And now there is but one of all my blood,
Who will embrace me in the world-to-be:
This hair is his: she cut it off and gave it,
And I have borne it with me all these years,
And thought to bear it with me to my grave;
But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him,
My babe in bliss: wherefore when I am gone,
Take, give her this, for it may comfort her:
It will moreover be a token to her,
That I am he.’

He ceased; and Miriam Lane
Made such a voluble answer promising all,
That once again he roll’d his eyes upon her
Repeating all he wish’d, and once again
She promised.

Then the third night after this,
While Enoch slumber’d motionless and pale,
And Miriam watch’d and dozed at intervals,
There came so loud a calling of the sea,
That all the houses in the haven rang.
He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad
Crying with a loud voice `a sail! a sail!
I am saved’; and so fell back and spoke no more.

So past the strong heroic soul away.
And when they buried him the little port
Had seldom seen a costlier funeral.