Ah shameless! for he did but sing A song that pleased us from its worth; No public life was his on earth, No blazon'd statesman he, nor king. He gave the people of his best : His worst he kept, his best he gave. My Shakespeare's curse on clown and knave Who will not let his ashes rest! Who make it seem more sweet to be The little life of bank and brier, The bird that pipes his lone desire And dies unheard within his tree, Than he that warbles long and loud And drops at Glory's temple-gates, For whom the carrion vulture waits To tear his heart before the crowd! TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS ILLYRIAN Woodlands, echoing falls Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, With such a pencil, such a pen, You shadow forth to distant men, I read and felt that I was there: And trust me while I turn'd the page, For me the torrent ever pour'd And glisten'd-here and there alone The broad-limb'd Gods at random thrown By fountain-urns ;-and Naiads oar'd A glimmering shoulder under gloom Of cavern pillars; on the swell The silver lily heaved and fell; And many a slope was rich in bloom From him that on the mountain lea By dancing rivulets fed his flocks To him who sat upon the rocks, And fluted to the morning sea. BREAK, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. THE POET'S SONG. THE rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He pass'd by the town and out of the street, A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, And waves of shadow went over the wheat, And he sat him down in a lonely place, And chanted a melody loud and sweet, That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, And the lark drop down at his feet. The swallow stopt as he hunted the fly, And stared, with his foot on the prey, ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS. ENOCH ARDEN. LONG lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm ; Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears, And in the chasm are foam and yellow Shriek out I hate you, Enoch,' and at 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; 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, Annie 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 fishing-nets, Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn ; 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. For Annie and so prosper'd that at last A carefuller in peril, did not breathe coast A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff: In this the children play'd at keeping Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a 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 about :' When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch strongermade year On board a merchantman, and made himself Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd a life From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas: And all men look'd upon him favourably: And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth May ! He purchased his own boat, and made a home For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway up The narrow street that clamber'd toward the mill. 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. 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 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, 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. Then came a change, as all things Ten miles to northward of the narrow port 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. And merrily ran the years, seven happy To see his children leading evermore There yet were many weeks before she Appraised his weight and fondled father 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. So now that shadow of mischance appear'd No 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 like, 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 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 street ward sitting-room And yet to sell her then with what she❘ With shelf and corner for the goods and brought Buy goods and stores-set Annie forth So all day long till Enoch's last at home, Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and 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, Have all his pretty young ones educated, stores. axe, Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd and rang, Till this was ended, and his careful hand, The space was narrow, -having order'd all Almost as neat and close as Nature packs Her blossom or her seedling, paused; and he, And pass his days in peace among his Who needs would work for Annie to the he, This pretty, puny, weakly little one,Nay-for I love him all the better for itGod bless him, he shall sit upon my knees And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, And make him merry, when I come home again. Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I go.' Him running on thus hopefully she heard, And almost hoped herself; but when he turn'd The current of his talk to graver things Heard and not heard him; as the village girl, Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring, Musing on him that used to fill it for her, Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. 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 here (He named the day) get you a seaman's glass, Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears.' But when the last of those last moments came, 'Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted, Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. Is He not yonder in those uttermost Enoch rose, Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife, And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones; But for the third, the sickly one, who slept After a night of feverous wakefulness, When Annie would have raised him Enoch said 'Wake him not; let him sleep; how should the child Remember this?' and kiss'd him in his cot. But Annie from her baby's forehead clipt A tiny curl, and gave it this he kept Thro' all his future; but now hastily caught His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way. She when the day, that Enoch mention'd, came, Borrow'd 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 past. Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail She watch'd it, and departed weeping for him; Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as his grave, Set her sad will no less to chime with his, But throve not in her trade, not being bred To barter, nor compensating the want By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, Nor asking overmuch and taking less, And still foreboding 'what would Enoch say?' Look to the babes, and till I come again | For more than once, in days of difficulty |