Enoch rose, Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife, And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones; But for the third, 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 this child Remember this?' and kiss'ed 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?' 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 that never came, Gain'd for here 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. In that same week when Annie buried it, Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her peace (Since Enoch left he had not look'd 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, Past thro' the solitary room in front, Paused for a moment at an inner door, Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, Enter'd; but Annie, seated with her grief, Fresh from the burial of her little one, Cared not to look on any human face, But turn'd her own toward the wall and wept. Then Philip standing up said falteringly 'Annie, I came to ask a favor of you.' He spoke; the passion in her moan'd reply 'Favor from one so sad and so forlorn As I am!' half abash'd him; yet unask'd, His bashfulness and tenderness at war, He set himself beside her, saying to her: