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 Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, 745 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 Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 750 To tempt the babe, who rear’d his creasy 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, But turning now and then to speak with him, 755 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 Hers, yet not his, upon the father’s knee, 760 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,— Then he, tho’ Miriam Lane had told him all, 765 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, Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. 770 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, Crept to the gate, and open’d it, and closed, 775 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 His fingers into the wet earth, and pray’d. 780 ‘Too hard to bear! why did they take me thence? O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou That did’st uphold me on my lonely isle, Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness A little longer! aid me, give me strength 785 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. Never: no father’s kiss for me—the girl 790 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, All down the long and narrow street he went 795 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.’