So Enoch died, as he had lived so long. Alone--alone! for Miriam Lane had pass'd To an adjoining chamber; but she heard Those joyous dying words, "A sail! a sail! I'm sav'd," and hurried back to comfort him; But wist not that the "sail" his spirit saw Was God's own ark, propell'd by angel wings Towards the Ocean of Eternity. "Ah well!" she said; "poor Enoch! he is gone; God rest his soul: give him more joy in Heaven Than he had found on earth,--at least of late: I thought he had not long to linger here, The sea made such a moaning all the night: It sounded like his death-wail; and methought I saw the corpse-light dancing in the fen. Now will I tell the neighbours who he was: They'll wonder how Dame Miriam knew the truth, But kept it close, because she loved her friend Enoch:--they cannot call me gossip now." It chanced that day, that Philip left his mill Earlier than wont: the nutting-time was come,-- That season of the year so closely link'd To Philip's destiny;--it seem'd to stir His pulse to quicker beat, and send a thrill Of strange mysterious feeling thro' his veins. He knew not how, or why: but Philip hurried on That he might keep the promised holiday With all the children--his, and hers, and theirs-- All dear to him; nor least the bonny Ralph, That last wee prattler, climbing to his knee. And all were ready with their nutting crooks; And Annie Ray, his own, his wife at last,-- His "beam of sunshine," as he called her oft. But as he left his mill, the passing-bell, With its first startling boom, tolled on his ear. It is a sound that enters at the brain, A saddening augury of woe, and strikes The inmost chord of sympathising hearts That fondly breathe an echoing sigh of pain. Sudden it falls, chilly as winter's frost, Turning to icicles the heart's warm blood. Spoke Philip to the comrade at his side, "Know you for whom that passing-bell is struck? Some full-grown man: it is the minute-toll." "Mayhap the stranger down at Miriam Lane's; I heard that he was dying yester-e'en. The tide has turn'd but now: 'tis running out; Whoe'er he was, his soul upon the shore Waited the ebbing tide to ebb away." Then came they to a little knot of men (Fishers in dark-blue knitted woollen vests) Hard by "the idle corner,"--so 'twas called,-- The blacksmith's forge. The honest gossippers, As Philip pass'd along, hushed their voices. Could he have read their looks, he might have known Some dark o'er-clouding sorrow was at hand, More nigh than he could think for, and more hard. Then passed a woman from the ale-house door, And, all unwitting Philip was so near, Cried, "Have you heard who died just now? 'Twas Enoch Arden,--lost, but late returned; And Miriam Lane has known it all along!"