He therefore turning softly like a thief, Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, And feeling all along the garden wall, Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, 770 Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed, As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door, Behind him, and came out upon the waste. And there he would have knelt, but that his knees Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug 775 His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd. "Too hard to bear! why did they take me thence? O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness 780 A little longer! aid me, give me strength Not to tell her, never to let her know. Help me not to break in upon her peace. My children too! must I not speak to these? They know me not. I should betray myself. 785 Never: no father's kiss for me--the girl So like her mother, and the boy, my son." There speech and thought and nature fail'd a little And he lay tranced; but when he rose and paced Back toward his solitary home again, 790 All down the long and narrow street he went Beating it in upon his weary brain, As tho' it were the burthen of a song, "Not to tell her, never to let her know." He was not all unhappy. His resolve 795 Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermore Prayer from a living source within the will, And beating up thro' all the bitter world, Like fountains of sweet water in the sea, Kept him a living soul. "This miller's wife," 800 He said to Miriam, "that you spoke about, Has she no fear that her first husband lives?" "Ay, ay, poor soul," said Miriam, "fear enow! If you could tell her you had seen him dead, Why, that would be her comfort;" and he thought 805 "After the Lord has call'd me she shall know, I wait His time;" and Enoch set himself, Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live. Almost to all things could he turn his hand. Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought 810 To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help'd At lading and unlading the tall barks, That brought the stinted commerce of those days; Thus earn'd a scanty living for himself: Yet since he did but labor for himself, 815 Work without hope, there was not life in it Whereby the man could live; and as the year Roll'd itself round again to meet the day When Enoch had return'd, a languor came Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually 820 Weakening the man, till he could do no more, But kept the house, his chair, and last his bed. And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully.