As if some hand had struck a sudden blow, Philip seemed stunned: the blood forsook his cheek, The big cold drops stood out upon his brow, As on the victim's, stretched upon the rack. His comrade laid his hand on Philip's arm, And uttering no word (what could he say?) Led him, as one half-blinded, step by step, Until they reached the home, where Annie Ray, Poor widow-wife, sat watching his return; He stagger'd towards her, caught her in his arms: God help me,--kiss me darling,--wife look up! "My wife--his wife--I know not what I say: If we did sin it was unwittingly; O, Annie! darling, one more fond embrace, E'er it be said our wedded love was wrong." Then, as she wonder'd, gazing on his face, And twined her loving arms around, he told,-- Yes, told her all--how Enoch had returned. Then Philip's comrade, who had linger'd near, Beckon'd the children out, and closed the door: There Miriam met them, with the lock of hair: But, loth to interrupt the sorrowers, She led the children to the house of death; And took a key from off the wooden peg, Beside the settle, where she used to hang The skeins of twine to mend the fishing nets: Then gently led them up the narrow stair, That creaked beneath their stealthy-moving tread. Sacred the silence that we ever keep, When death is in the house! we speak, we walk, With muffled tone and step, as if the dead Could be disturb'd, and waken out of sleep. Then Miriam turn'd the key;--that jarring click! How harsh it grated on the children's ear! As do the pebbles on the boat's sharp keel. Cold thro' the open casement came the breeze: There stood the bed--and on the sacking lay, Distinct beneath the sheet, a rigid form-- The feet so prominent, the arms close down!-- The children clung together, half afraid, While Miriam turned the coverlid aside. They dar'd not stoop to kiss the pallid face; But gaz'd awhile, then slowly left the room. Once they had seen their brother, as he lay Dead in his little cot: but he had look'd So beautiful asleep, you might have thought Death's angel had but gently turned him round, To rest more quietly: the tiny hands Were clasp'd together, and the face bent down, As resting on the pillow--not like this,-- So stiff, so cold, so utterly alone. Now, as the twilight fell the second day, Another mourner came: she spoke no word: Miriam had put the key within her hand, Turning aside, to dash away her tears: The widowed woman went up-stairs alone. One moment gazing on her Enoch's face, She stoop'd to kiss it, putting back the hair, As she had done in life: then kneeling down She pray'd,--"forgive me,--pity me,--Oh God." She touch'd his marble-cold, pale, hand with hers, That bore e'en then the double wedding rings.