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So dear a life your arms enfold
Whose crying is a cry for gold:

Yet here to-night in this dark city, When ill and weary, alone and cold,

I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry, This nursling of another sky

Still in the little book you lent me, And where you tenderly laid it by :

And I forgot the clouded Forth,
The gloom that saddens Heaven and
Earth,

The bitter east, the misty summer
And gray metropolis of the North.

Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain, Perchance, to charm a vacant brain, Perchance, to dream you still beside me, My fancy fled to the South again.

TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE.

COME, when no graver cares employ,
God-father, come and see your boy:
Your presence will be sun in winter,
Making the little one leap for joy.

For, being of that honest few,
Who give the Fiend himself his due,
Should eighty-thousand college-coun-
cils

Thunder "Anathema," friend, at you;
Should all our churchmen foam in spite
At you, so careful of the right,

Yet one lay-hearth would give you welcome

(Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight;

Where, far from noise and smoke of town, I watch the twilight falling brown

All round a careless-order'd garden
Close to the ridge of a noble down.

You'll have no scandal while you dine,
But honest talk and wholesome wine,
And only hear the magpie gossip
Garrulous under a roof of pine:
For groves of pine on either hand,
To break the blast of winter; stand;

And further on, the hoary Channel
Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand;

Where, if below the milky steep
Some ship of battle slowly creep,
And on thro' zones of light and shadow
Glimmer away to the lonely deep,

We might discuss the Northern sin Which made a selfish war begin ;

Dispute the claims, arrange the
chances;

Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win :
Or whether war's avenging rod
Shall lash all Europe into blood;

Till you should turn to dearer matters, Dear to the man that is dear to God;

How best to help the slender store,
How mend the dwellings, of the poor;
How gain in life, as life advances,
Valor and charity more and more.
Come, Maurice, come: the lawn as yet
Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet;

But when the wreath of March has
blossom'd,

Crocus, anemone, violet,

Or later, pay one visit here,
For those are few we hold as dear;
Nor pay but one, but come for many,
Many and many a happy year.

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And high in heaven behind it a gray down With Danish barrows; and a hazelwood, By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes Green in a cuplike hollow of the down.

Here on this beach a hundred years ago, Three children of three houses, Ännie Lee, The prettiest little damsel in the port, And Philip Ray the miller's only son, And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd

Among the waste and lumber of the shore, Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishingnets,

Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats up

drawn ;

And built their castles of dissolving sand To watch them overflow'd, or following up

And flying the white breaker, daily left The little footprint daily wash'd away.

A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff: In this the children play'd at keeping house.

Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, While Annie still was mistress; but at times

Enoch would hold possession for a week: "This is my house and this my little wife. 'Mine too" said Philip "turn and turn

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about":

When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch stronger-made

Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes

All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears, Shriek out "I hate you, Enoch," and at

this

The little wife would weep for company, And pray them not to quarrel for her sake, And say she would be little wife to both.

But when the dawn of rosy childhood

past, And the new warmth of life's ascending

sun

Was felt by either, either fixt his heart
On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love,
But Philip loved in silence; and the girl
Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him;
But she loved Enoch; tho' she knew it not,
And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set
A purpose evermore before his eyes,
To hoard all savings to the uttermost,

To purchase his own boat, and make a | With children; first a daughter. In him woke,

home

wish

For Annie and so prosper'd that at last With his first babe's first cry, the noble
A luckier or a bolder fisherman,
A carefuller in peril, did not breathe
For leagues along that breaker-beaten

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Then, on a golden autumn eventide, The younger people making holiday, With bag and sack and basket, great and small,

Went nutting to the hazels. Philipstay'd (His father lying sick and needing him) An hour behind; but as he climb'd the hill,

Just where the prone edge of the wood began

To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair, 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 theireyes 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

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To save all earnings to the uttermost,
And give his child a better bringing-up
Than his had been, or hers; a wish re-
new'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 oceanspoil

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.

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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 | Yet not with brawling opposition she,

sail'd,

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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

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 For her or his dear children, not to go. He not for his own self caring but her, Her and her children, let her plead in vain ;

So grieving held his will, and bore it

thro'.

For Enoch parted with his old seafriend,

Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand

To fit their little streetward sitting-room With shelf and corner for the goods and

stores.

So all day long till Enoch's last at home, Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and

axe,

Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear And yet to sell her- then with what she Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd

brought

-

Buy goods and stores in trade

and rang,

set Annie forth Till this was ended, and his careful

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 :

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