For thro’ that dawning gleam’d a kindlier hope On Enoch thinking ‘after I am gone, Then may she learn I loved her to the last.’ 835 He call’d aloud for Miriam Lane and said ‘Woman, I have a secret—only swear, Before I tell you—swear upon the book Not to reveal it, till you see me dead.’ ‘Dead,’ clamour’d the good woman, ‘hear him talk! 840 I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round.’ ‘Swear’ added Enoch sternly ‘on the book.’ And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore. Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her, ‘Did you know Enoch Arden of this town?’ 845 ‘Know him?’ she said ‘I knew him far away. Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street; Held his head high, and cared for no man, he.’ Slowly and sadly Enoch answer’d her; ‘His head is low, and no man cares for him. 850 I think I have not three days more to live; I am the man.’ At which the woman gave A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. ‘You Arden, you! nay,—sure he was a foot Higher than you be.’ Enoch said again 855 ‘My God has bow’d me down to what I am; My grief and solitude have broken me; Nevertheless, know you that I am he Who married—but that name has twice been changed— I married her who married Philip Ray. 860 Sit, listen.’ Then he told her of his voyage, His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back, His gazing in on Annie, his resolve, And how he kept it. As the woman heard, Fast flow’d the current of her easy tears, 865 While in her heart she yearn’d incessantly To rush abroad all round the little haven, Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes; But awed and promise-bounden she forebore, Saying only ‘See your bairns before you go! 870 Eh, let me fetch ’em, Arden,’ and arose Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung A moment on her words, but then replied: ‘Woman, disturb me not now at the last, But let me hold my purpose till I die. 875 Sit down again; mark me and understand, While I have power to speak. I charge you now, When you shall see her, tell her that I died Blessing her, praying for her, loving her; Save for the bar between us, loving her 880 As when she laid her head beside my own. And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw So like her mother, that my latest breath Was spent in blessing her and praying for her. And tell my son that I died blessing him. 885 And say to Philip that I blest him too; He never meant us any thing but good. But if my children care to see me dead, Who hardly knew me living, let them come, I am their father; but she must not come, 890 For my dead face would vex her after-life. And now there is but one of all my blood, Who will embrace me in the world-to-be: This hair is his: she cut it off and gave it, And I have borne it with me all these years, 895 And thought to bear it with me to my grave;