ONG lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm; And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands; Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf In cluster; then a moulder'd church; and higher A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill.
Here on this beach a hundred years ago, Three children of three houses played Among the waste and lumber of the shore.
A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff:
In this the children played at keeping house.
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next,
While Annie still was mistress; at times,
When, if they quarrel'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
Seemed kinder unto Philip than to him;
But she loved Enoch; tho' she knew it not,
And would, if ask'd, deny it.
Once, on a golden autumn eventide,
The younger people making holiday,
With bag and sack and basket, great and small,
Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stay'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 burned 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 merry-making,
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.
Then came a change, as all things human change. Another hand had crept across his trade Taking her bread and his: and on him fell, Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man, Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. He seemed, 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 prayed '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?
And Enoch all at once assented to it,
Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer.
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 renewed,
(Sure that all evil would come out of it)
Besought him, supplicating, if he cared
For her and 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 through.
And Enoch faced that morning of farewell
Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears,
Save, as his Annie's, were a laughter to him.
"Annie, this voyage by the grace of God
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us.
Come Annie, come, cheer up before I go."
At length she spoke, "O Enoch, you are wise; And yet for all your wisdom well know I
That I shall look upon your face no more."
"Well then," said Enoch, "I shall look on yours. Annie, the ship I sail in passes hereHe named the day;-get you a seaman's glass, Spy out my face and laugh at all your fears."
Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife,
And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones;
Hastily caught
His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way.
She, when the day that Enoch mention'd, came, Borrowed a glass, but all in vain: perhaps She could not fix the glass to suit her eye; Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous; She saw him not and while he stood on deck Waving, the moment and the vessel passed.
Now the third child was sickly born and grew Yet sicklier.
Ere she was aware,―
Like the caged bird escaping suddenly,
The little innocent soul flitted away.
In that same week when Annie buried it, Philip's true heart, which hungered for her peace (Since Enoch left he had not looked upon her), Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. "Surely," said Philip, "I may see her now, May be some little comfort;" therefore went, Passed through the solitary room in front, Paused for a moment at an inner door, Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, Entered; but Annie, seated with her grief, Fresh from the burial of her little one, Cared not to look on any human face, But turned her own toward the wall and wept.
Then Philip standing up said falteringly,
'Annie, I came to ask a favor of you.
"I came to speak to you of what he wished, Enoch, your husband: I have ever said
You chose the best among us—a strong man :
For where he fixt his heart he set his hand
To do the thing he willed, and bore it through.
And wherefore did he go this weary way,
And leave you lonely? Not to see the world.
For pleasure? Nay, but for the wherewithal
To give his babes a better bringing-up
Than his had been, or yours: that was his wish.
I do beseech you by the love you bear
Him and his children not to say me nay—
For, if you will, when Enoch comes again
Why then he shall repay me-if you will,
Annie-for I am rich and well to do.
Now let me put the boy and girl to school:
This is the favor that I came to ask."
Then Annie with her prows against the wall
Answer'd "I cannot look you in the face;
But he'll repay you: money can be repaid;
Not kindness such as yours."
Then Philip put the boy and girl to school, And bought them needful books, and every way, Like one who does his duty by his own,
Made himself theirs; and though for Annie's sake,
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port,
He oft denied his heart his dearest wish,
And seldom crossed her threshold, yet he sent
Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit,
The late and early roses from his wall,
Or conies from the down, and now and then,
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