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And cleaves to cairn and cromlech still ; or him Or Cowardice, the child of lust for gold,
Or Geoffrey's book, or him of Malleor's, one Or Labor, with a groan and not a voice,
Touch'd by the adulterous finger of a time

Or Art with poisonous honey stol'n from France, That hover'd between war and wantonness,

And that which knows, but careful for itself, And crownings and dethronements : take withal And that which knows not, ruling that which knows Thy poet's blessing, and his trust that Heaven To its own harm: the goal of this great world Will blow the tempest in the distance back Lies beyond sight: yet-if our slowly-grown From thine and ours: for some are scared, who mark, And crown'd Republic's crowning common-sense, Or wisely or unwisely, signs of storm,

That saved her many times, not fail-their fears Waverings of every vane with every wind,

Are morning shadows huger than the shapes And wordy tracklings to the transient hour, That cast them, not those gloomier which forego And fierce or careless looseners of the faith, The darkness of that battle in the West, And Softness breeding scorn of simple life,

Where all of high and holy dies away.

THE DUKE AND DUCHESS OF EDINBURGH.

I.

For thrones and peoples are as waifs that swing, Tue Son of him with whom we strove for power-

And float or fall, in endless ebb and flow; Whose will is lord thro' all his world-domain

But who love best have best the grace to know Who made the serf a man, and burst his chain- That Love by right divine is deathless king, Has given our Prince his own Imperial Flower,

Marie-Alexandrovna ! Alexandrovna.

IV.
And welcome, Russian flower, a people's pride,

And love has led thee to the stranger land,
To Britain, when her flowers begin to blow!
From love to love, from home to home you go,

Where men are bold and strongly say their say:From mother unto mother, stately bride,

See empire upon empire smiles to-day,
Marie-Alexandrovna.
As thou with thy young lover band in hand,

Alexandrovna!
II.

So now thy fuller life is in the West, The golden news along the steppes is blown,

Whose hand at home was gracious to thy poor: And at thy name the Tartar tents are stirred; Thy name was blest within the narrow door ; Elburz and all the Caucasus have heard ;

Here also, Marie, shall thy name be blest, And all the sultry palms of India known,

Marie-Alexandrovna !
Alexandrovna.

V.
The voices of onr universal sea,
On capes of Afric as on cliffs of Kent,

Shall fears and jealous hatreds flame again!
The Maoris and that Isle of Continent,

Or at thy coming, Princess, everywhere, And loyal pines of Canada murmur thee,

The blue heaven break, and some diviner air Marie-Alexandrovna !

Breathe thro' the world and change the hearts of

men, III.

Alexandrovna ? Fair empires branching, both, in lusty life - But hearts that change not, love that cannot cease,

Yet Harold's England fell to Norman swords; And peace be yours, the peace of soul in soul!

Yet thine own land has bow'd to Tartar hordes And howsoever this wild world may roll, Since English Harold gave its throne a wise, Between your peoples truth and manful peace, Alexandrovna!

Alfied-Alexandrovna!

IN THE GARDEN AT SWAINSTON.

NIGHTINGALEs warbled withont

Within was weeping for thee;
Shadows of three dead men

Walked in the walks with me;
Shadows of three dead men,

And thou wast one of the three.

of a passion that lasts but a day: Still in the house in his coffin

The prince of courtesy lay.

Nightingales sang in the woods

The master was far away;
Nightingaies warbled and sang

Two dead men have I known

In courtesy like to thee:
Two dead men have I loved

With a love that ever will be;
Three dead men have I loved,

And thou art last of the three.

ENOCH ARDE N.

Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm; (His father lying sick and neoding him) Aud in the chasm are foam and yellow sands; An hour behind; but as he climbed the hül, Beyond, red roofs about a parrow wharf

Just where the prone edge of the wood began In cluster : then a moulder'd church ; and higher To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair, A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill; Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand, And high in heaven behind it a gray down His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face With Danish barrows; and a hazel-wood,

All-kindled by a still and sacred fire, By autumu nutters haunted, flourishes

That burned as on an altar. Philip look'd, Green in a cuplike hollow of the down.

And in their eyes and faces read his doom:

Then, as their faces grew together, groan'd Here on this beach a hundred years ago,

And slipt aside, and like a wounded life Three children of three houses, Annie Lee,

Crept down into the hollows of the wood ; The prettiest little damsel in the port,

There, while the rest were loud with merry-makines And Philip Ray, the miller's only son,

Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad

Bearing a lifelong burden in his heart.
Made orphañ by a winter shipwreck, play'd
Among the waste and lumber of the shore,

So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells, Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets,

And merrily ran the years, seven happy years, Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats up-drawn ; Seven happy years of health and competence, Avd built their castles of dissolving sand

And mutual love and honorable toil; To watch them overflow'd, or following up

With children ; first a daughter. In him woke, Aud flying the white breaker, daily left

With his first babe's first cry, the poble wish The little footprint daily wash'd away.

To save all earnings to the uttermost,

And give his child a better bringing-up A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff:

Than his had been, or hers; a wish renew'd, In this the children play'd at keeping house. When two years after came a boy to be Enoch was host one day, Philip the next,

The rosy idol of her solitudes,
While Appie still was mistress ; but at times While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas,
Enocn would hold possession for a week :

Or often journeying landward ; for in truth
“This is my house and this my little wife.” Enoch's white horse, and Euoch's oceav-spoil
“Mine too,” said Philip, “turn and turn abont:" In ocean-smelling osier, and his face,
When, if they quarrell’d, Enoch stronger-made Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter-gales,
Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes Not only to the market-cross were known,
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears, But in the leafy lanes behind the down,
Shriek out, “I hate you, Enoch," and at this Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp,
The little wife would weep for company,

And peacock-yewtree of the onely Hali, And pray them not to quarrel for her sake, Whose Friday fare was Enoca's ministering. And say she would be little wife to both.

Then came a change, as all things human change But when the dawn of rosy childhood past, Ten miles to northward of the narrow port And the new warmth of life's ascending sun Open'd a larger haven: thither used Was felt by either, either fixt his heart

Enoch at times to go by land or sea ; On that one girl ; and Enoch spoke his love, And once when there, and clambering on a nast But Philip loved in silence ; and the girl

In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell: Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him ;

A limb was broken when they lifted him: Bnt she loved Enoch; tho’she knew it not, And while he lay recovering there, his wife And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set

Bore him another son, a sickly one: A purpose evermore before his eyes,

Another hand crept too across his trade To hoard all savings to the uttermost,

Taking her bread and theirs: and on him fell, To purchase his own boat, and make a home Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man, For Annie: and so prosper'd that at last

Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. A lnckier or a bolder fisherman,

He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night, A carefuller in peril, did not breathe

To see his children leading evermore For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast Low miserable lives of band-to-mouth, Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year And her, he loved, a beggar: then he pray'd On board a merchantman, and made himself “Save them from this, whatever comes to me." Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd a life And while he pray'd, the master of that ship From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas: Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, And all men look'd upon him favorably :

Came, for he knew the man and valued him, And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth May, Reporting of his vessel China-bound, He purchased his own boat, and made a home And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go! For Annie, neat and nestlike, half-way up

There yet were many weeks before she sail'd, The narrow street that clamber'd toward the mill. Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch have the place :

And Enoch all at once assented to it, Then on a golden autumn eventide,

Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. The younger people making holiday, With bag and sack and basket, great and small, So now that shadow of mischance appear'd Went nutting to the bazels, Philip stay'd

No graver than as when some ittle cloud

The current of his talk to graver things
In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing
On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard,
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 ail your wisdom well know I That I shall look upon your face no more.*

Cats 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 weli -
How many a rough sea had he patner'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 — ret Annie forth in trade
With all that seamen veeded 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 prutits lead an easier iife,
Have all his pretty young ones educated,
And pass his days in peace among his own.

Tbus 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.

“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, Look to the babes, and ill I ,ome again, Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. Aud fear no more for me ; or if you fear Cast all your cares on God; that anchor hoids Is He not yonder in those uttermost Parts of the morning ? if I flee to these Can I go from Him; and the sea is His, The sea is His: He made it."

Enoch rose,
Cast his strong arms abont bis drooping wife,
And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones;
But for the third, the sickly one, who slept
After a night of feverons 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: tbis 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.

Then first since Enoch's golden ring bad girt Her finger, Annie fought against his will: Yet not with brawling opposition she, Bat manifold entreaties, many a tear, Many a sad kiss by day by night renew'd (Sure that all evil would come out of it) Besonght 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 sea-friend, 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 til! Enoch's last at home, Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe, Auger and saw, while Annie seem d to hear Her own death-scaffo.d rising, 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, Who needs would work for Annie to the last, Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn.

And Enoch faced this morning of farewell Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears, Save as his Annie's, were a laughter to him. Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God, Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes Whatever came to him: and then he said, “ Annie, this voyage by the grace of God Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, For I'll be back, my girl, before you know it." Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, "and 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."

Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail Sh watch'd it, and departed weening io nim; 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 Bay ?" For more than once, in days of difficulty And pressure, had she sold her wares for less Than what she gave in buying what she sold: She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it; and thus, Expectant of that news which never came, Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance, And lived a life of silent melancholy.

Now the third child was sickly born and grew Yet sicklier, tho’ the mother cared for it With all a mother's care: nevertheless, Whether her business often call'd her from it, Or thro' the want of what it needed most, Or means to pay the voice who best could tell What most it needed-howsoe'er it was, After a lingering,-ere she was aware,Like the caged bird escaping suddenly, The little innocent soul flitted away.

Him running on this hopefully she heard, And almost hoped herself; but when he turn'd

In that same week when Annie buried it.

Philip's true beart, which hunger'd for her peace But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind: (Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her), Scarce could the woman when he came upon her, $mote him, as having kept aloof so long.

Out of full heart and boundless gratitude “Surely," said Philip, “I may see her now,

Light on a broken word to thank him with.
May be some little comfort;" therefore went, But Philip was her children's all-in-all;
Past thro' the solitary room in front,

From distant corners of the street they ran
Paused for a moment at an inner door,

To greet his hearty welcome heartily: Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening,

Lords of his house and of his mill were they : Enter'd; but Aunie, seated with her grief,

Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs Fiesh from the burial of her little one,

Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him Cared not to look on any humap face,

And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gain'd But turu'd her own toward the wall and wept. As Enoch lost; for Enoch seem'd to them Then Philip standing up said falteringly,

Uncertain as a vision or a dream, "Annie, I came to ask a favor of you."

Faint as a figure seen in early dawn

Down at the far end of an avenue, He spoke : the passion in her moan'd reply, Going we know not where; and so ten years, "Favor from one so sad and so forlorn

Since Enoch left his hearth and native land,
As I am !" half abash'd him, yet unask'd,

Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came.
His bashfulness and tenderness at war,
He set himself beside her, saying to her:

It chanced one evening Annie's children longa

To go with others, nutting to the wood, “I came to speak to you of what he wish'd, And Annie would go with them; then they begg'a Enoch, your husband : I have ever said

For Father Philip (as they him call'd) too: You chose the best, among us - a strong man : Him, like the working-bee in blossom-dust, For where he fixt his heart be set his hand

Blanch'd with his mill, they found ; and saying to To do the thing he willid, and bore it thro'.

him, And wherefore did he go this weary way,

"Come with ns, Father Philip,” he denied ; And leave you lonely? not to see the world- But when the children pluck'd at him to go, For pleasure ?-nay, but for he wherewithal He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their wish, To give his babes a better oringing-op

For was not Annie with them? and they went. Than his had been, or you.rs. that was his wish. And if he come again, vext will he be

But after scaling half the weary doin, To tind the precious morning hours were lost. Just where the prone edge of the wood began Aud it would vex him even 'in his grave,

To feather toward th hollow, all her force If he could know his babes were running wild Fail'd her, and sighing “Let me rest" she said. Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, dow

So Philip rested with her well-content; Have we not known each other all our lives? While all the younger ones with jubilant cries I do beseech you by the love you bear

Broke from their elders, and tumultuously Him and his children not to say me nay

Down thro’ the whitening hazels made a plunge For, if you will, when Enoch comes again

To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke Why then he shall repay me-if you will,

The lithe reluctaut boughs to tear away Anpie-for I am rich and well-to-do.

Their tawny clusters, crying to each other Now let me put the boy and girl to school. And caliing, here and there, about the wood. This is the favor that I came to ask.”

But Philip sitting at her side forgot Then Annie with her brows against the wall Her presence, and remember'd one dark hour Answer'd, “I cannot look you in the face;

Here in this wood, when like a wounded life I seem so foolish and so broken down;

He crept into the shadow : at last he said, When you came in my sorrow broke me down; Lifting his honest forehead, "Listen, Annie, And now I think your kindness breaks me down ; How merry they are down yonder in the wood." But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me;

“Tired, Annie !” for she did not speak a word. He will repay yon: money can be repaid;

“Tired ?” but her face had fall'n upon her hands; Not kindness such as yours."

At which, as with a kind of anger in him,

“The ship was lost," he said, “the ship was lost!

And Philip ask'd No more of that! why should you kill yourself “Then you will let me, Annie "

And make them orphans quite?" And Anpie said,

“I thought not of it: but-I know not why

There she turn'd, Their voices make me feel so solitary."
She rose, avd fixt her swimming eyes upon him,
And dwelt a moment on his kindly face,

Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke. Then calling down a blessing on his head

"Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, Caught at his hand and wrung it passionately, And it has been upon my mind so long, And past into the little garth beyond.

That tho' I know not when it first came there, So lifted up in spirit he moved away.

I know that it will out at last. O Annie,

It is beyond all hope, against all chance,
Then Philip put the boy and girl to school, That he who left you ten long years ago
And bought them needful books, and every way, Should still be living; well then-let me speak:
Like one who does his duty by his own,

I grieve to see you poor and wanting help:
Made himself theirs; and tho' for Annie's sake, I cannot help you as I wish to do
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port,

Unless—they say that women are so quickHe oft denied his heart his dearest wish,

Perhaps you know what I would have you know And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit, A father to your childrev : I do think The late and early roses from his wall,

They love me as a father : I am sure Or conies from the down, and now and then, That I love them as if they were mine own: With some pretext of fineness in the meal

And I believe, if you were fast my wife, To save the offence of charitable, flour

That after all these sad uncertain years, From his tall mill that whistled on the wasto. We might be still as happy as God grants

To any of His creatures. Think upon it:

Then compass'd round by the blind wall of night For I am well-to-do- no kin, no care,

Brook'd not the expectant terror of her heart, No burthen, save iny care for you and yours ; Started from bed, and struck herself a light, And we have known each other all our lives, Then desperately seized the holy Book, And I have loved you longer than you know." Suddenly set it wide to find a sign,

Suddenly put her finger ou the text, Then answer'd Annie ; tenderly she spoke : “Under a palmtree." That was nothing to her: “You have been as God's good angel in our house. No meaning there: she closed the book and slept: God bless you for it, God reward you for it, When lo! her Enoch sitting on a height, Philip, with something happier than myself.

Under a palmtree, over him the Sun: Can one love twice? can you be ever loved

“He is gone," she thought, "he is happy, he is sing As Enoch was? what is it that you ask !"

ing “I am content," he answer'd, “to be loved

Hosanna in the highest: yonder shines A little after Enoch." "0," she cried,

The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms Scared as it were, “dear Philip, wait a while: Whereof the happy people strowing cried If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not come

'Hosanna in the highest !"" Here she woke, Yet wait a year, a year is not so long:

Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him, Surely I shall be wiser in a year:

"There is no reason why we should not wed." O wait a little !" Philip sadly said,

" Then for God's sake," he answer'd, “both our "Annie, as I have waited all my life

sakes, I well may wait a little.” “Nay," she cried, So you will wed me, let it be at once." “I am bound: you have my promise — in a year : Will yon not bide your year as I bide mine ?"

So these were wed and merrily rang the bells, And Philip answered, “I will bide my year.” Merrily rang the bells and they were wed. Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up

But never merrily beat Annie's heart. Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day

A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path, Pass from the Danish barrow overhead ;

She knew not whence; a whisper on her ear, Then fearing night and chill for Annie rose,

She knew not what; nor loved she to be left

Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. And sent his voice beneath him thro' the wood.

What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd, often Up came the children laden with their spoil ; Then all descended to the port, and there

Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch, A: Annie's door he paused and gave his hand,

Fearing to enter: Philip thought he knew :

Such doubts and fears were common to her state, Saying gently, “Annie, when I spoke to you, That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong.

Being with child: but when her child was born,

Then her new child was as herself renew'd, I am always bound to you, but you are free."

Then the new mother came about her heart,
Theu Annie weeping answer'd, “I am bound."

Then her good Philip was her all-in-all,
She spoke : and in one moment as it were, And that mysterious instinct wholly died.
While yet she went about her household ways,
Evin as she dwelt upon his latest words,

And where was Enoch? Prosperously sail'd That he had loved her longer than she knew, The ship “Good Fortune," tho' at setting forth That autumn into autumn flash'd again,

The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, shook
And there he stood once more before her face,

And almost overwhelm'd her, yet unvext
Claiming her promise. “Is it a year ?" she ask'd. She slipt across the summer of the world,
“ Yes, if the puts,” he said, “be ripe again: Then after a long tomble about the Cape
Come out and see." But she-she put him off- And frequent interchange of foul and fair,
So much to look to-such a change-a month- She passing thro' the summer world again,
Give her a month-she knew that she was bound The breath of Heaven came continually
A month-no more. Then Philip with bis eyes

And sent her sweetly by the golden isles,
Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice

Till silent in her oriental haven.
Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand,
“Take your own time, Annie, take your own time." There Enoch traded for himself, and bonght
And Annie could have wept for pity of him; Quaint monsters for the market of those times,
And yet she held him on delayingly

A gilded dragon, also, for the babes.
With many a scarce-believable excuse,
Trying his truth and his long-sufferance,

Less lucky her home-voyage : at first indeed Till half-another year had slipt away.

Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day,

Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figure-head By this the lazy gossips of the port,

Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her bows: Abhorrent of a calculation crost,

Then follow'd calms, and then winds variable, Began to chafe as at a personal wrong.

Then baffling, a long course of them; and last Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her ; Storm, such as drove her under moonless heavens Some that she but held off to draw him on;

Till hard upon the cry of “breakers" came
And others laugh'd at her and Philip too,

The crash of ruin, and the loss of all
As simple folk that knew not their own minds ; But Enoch and two others. Half the night,
And one, in whom all evil fancies clung

Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken spara Like serpent eggs together, laughingly

These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn
Would hint at worse in either. Her own son Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea.
Was silent, tho' he often look'd his wish;
But evermore the danghter prest upon her

No want was there of human sustenance,
To wed the man so dear to all of them

Soft fruitage, mighty nuts and nourishing roots; And lift the household out of poverty ;

Nor save for pity was it hard to take And Philip's rosy face contracting grew

The helpless life so wild that it was tame. Careworn and wan; and all these things fell on her There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge Sharp as reproach.

They built, and thatch'd with leaves of palm, a nuta At last one night it chanced Half hut, half native cavern. So the three, That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly

Set in this Eden of all plenteonsness, Pray'd for a sign, “my Enoch, is he gone?"

Dwelt with eternal summer. ill-content.

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