But Enoch yearned to see her face again; "If I might look on her sweet face again And know that she is happy." So the thought 715 Haunted and harass'd him, and drove him forth, At evening when the dull November day Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. There he sat down gazing on all below; There did a thousand memories roll upon him, 720 Unspeakable for sadness. By and by The ruddy square of comfortable light, Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house, Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures The bird of passage, till he madly strikes 725 Against it, and beats out his weary life. For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street, The latest[222] house to landward; but behind, With one small gate that open'd on the waste, Flourish'd a little garden square and wall'd: 730 And in it throve an ancient evergreen, A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk Of shingle,[223] and a walk divided it: But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence 735 That which he better might have shunn'd, if griefs Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. For cups and silver on the burnish'd board Sparkled and shone; so genial was the hearth: And on the right hand of the hearth he saw 740 Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees; And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, A later but a loftier Annie Lee, Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted hand, 745 Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy[224] arms, Caught at, and ever miss'd it, and they laugh'd: And on the left hand of the hearth he saw The mother glancing often toward her babe, 750 But turning now and then to speak with him, Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. Now when the dead man come to life beheld His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe 755 Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee, And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, And his own children tall and beautiful, And him, that other, reigning in his place, Lord of his rights and of his children's love,-- 760 Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all, Because things seen are mightier than things heard, Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, and fear'd To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, 765 Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth.