PREFACE.

The Narrative and Lyric Poems contained in this volume are the Second Series prescribed by the Department of Education for examination for Junior and Senior Public School Diplomas, and for the Senior High School Entrance, and Entrance into the Model Schools. (Circular 58.)

The poems are arranged in the order in which they are named in the prescribed list issued by the Department of Education, and a division is made between those prescribed for the Junior and those prescribed for the Senior examination.

In the annotations the chief points of difficulty have been explained. In the case of certain poems, such as Tennyson’s Enid, for example, some minor changes in words and phrases were made in the later editions of the poet’s works. In the cases where the later editions are still in copyright, the earlier readings have in all cases been followed, and important changes are indicated in the notes.

CONTENTS.

The numbers in parentheses refer to the pages of the Notes.

A

The poems in the following list are those prescribed by the Department of Education, in the Province of Ontario, for examination for the Junior Public School Diploma. In addition to these poems Scott’s Quentin Durward is also prescribed for this examination. See Circular 58.

B

The poems in the following list are those prescribed by the Department of Education in the Province of Ontario, for examination for the Senior Public School Diploma, Senior High School Entrance, and Entrance into the Model Schools. In addition to these poems, Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice is also prescribed for this examination. See Circular 58.

NARRATIVE AND LYRIC POEMS

SECOND SERIES

ENOCH ARDEN.

Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm;

And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands;

Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf

In cluster; then a moulder’d church; and higher

A long street climbs to one tall-tower’d mill; 5

And high in heaven behind it a gray down

With Danish barrows; and a hazelwood,

By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes

Green in a cuplike hollow of the down.

Here on this beach a hundred years ago, 10

Three children of three houses, Annie Lee,

The prettiest little damsel in the port,

And Philip Ray the miller’s only son,

And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor’s lad

Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play’d 15

Among the waste and lumber of the shore,

Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets,

Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn;

And built their castles of dissolving sand

To watch them overflow’d, or following up 20

And flying the white breaker, daily left

The little footprint daily wash’d away.

A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff:

In this the children play’d at keeping house.

Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, 25

While Annie still was mistress; but at times

Enoch would hold possession for a week:

‘This is my house and this my little wife.’

‘Mine too,’ said Philip ‘turn and turn about:’

When, if they quarrell’d, Enoch stronger-made 30

Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes

All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears,

Shriek out ‘I hate you, Enoch,’ and at this

The little wife would weep for company,

And pray them not to quarrel for her sake, 35

And say she would be little wife to both.

But when the dawn of rosy childhood past,

And the new warmth of life’s ascending sun

Was felt by either, either fixt his heart

On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love, 40

But Philip loved in silence; and the girl

Seem’d kinder unto Philip than to him;

But she loved Enoch; tho’ she knew it not,

And would if asked deny it. Enoch set

A purpose evermore before his eyes, 45

To hoard all savings to the uttermost,

To purchase his own boat, and make a home

For Annie: and so prosper’d that at last

A luckier or a bolder fisherman,

A carefuller in peril, did not breathe 50

For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast

Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year

On board a merchantman, and made himself

Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck’d a life

From the dread sweep of the downstreaming seas: 55

And all men look’d upon him favourably:

And ere he touch’d his one and-twentieth May

He purchased his own boat, and made a home

For Annie, neat and nest-like, halfway up

The narrow street that clamber’d toward the mill. 60

Then, on a golden autumn eventide,

The younger people making holiday,

With bag and sack and basket, great and small

Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stay’d

(His father lying sick and needing him) 65

An hour behind; but as he climbed the hill,

Just where the prone edge of the wood began

To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair,

Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand,

His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face 70

All kindled by a still and sacred fire,

That burn’d as on an altar. Philip look’d,

And in their eyes and faces read his doom;

Then, as their faces drew together, groan’d;

And slipt aside, and like a wounded life 75

Crept down into the hollows of the wood;

There, while the rest were loud in merrymaking,

Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past

Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart.

So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells, 80

And merrily ran the years, seven happy years,

Seven happy years of health and competence,

And mutual love and honourable toil;

With children; first a daughter. In him woke,

With his first babe’s first cry, the noble wish 85

To save all earnings to the uttermost,

And give his child a better bringing up

Than his had been, or hers; a wish renew’d,

When two years after came a boy to be

The rosy idol of her solitudes, 90

While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas,

Or often journeying landward; for in truth

Enoch’s white horse, and Enoch’s ocean-spoil

In ocean-smelling osier and his face,

Rough-redden’d with a thousand winter gales, 95

Not only to the market-cross were known,

But in the leafy lanes behind the down,

Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp,

And peacock-yewtree of the lonely Hall,

Whose Friday fare was Enoch’s ministering. 100

Then came a change, as all things human change.

Ten miles to northward of the narrow port

Open’d a larger haven: thither used

Enoch at times to go by land or sea;

And once when there, and clambering on a mast 105

In harbour, by mischance he slipt and fell:

A limb was broken when they lifted him;

And while he lay recovering there, his wife

Bore him another son, a sickly one:

Another hand crept too across his trade 110

Taking her bread and theirs: and on him fell,

Altho’ a grave and staid God-fearing man,

Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom.

He seem’d, as in a nightmare of the night,

To see his children leading evermore 115

Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth,

And her, he loved, a beggar: then he pray’d

‘Save them from this, whatever comes to me.’

And while he pray’d, the master of that ship

Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, 120

Came, for he knew the man and valued him,

Reporting of his vessel China-bound,

And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go?

There yet were many weeks before she sail’d,

Sail’d from this port. Would Enoch have the place? 125

And Enoch all at once assented to it,

Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer.

So now that shadow of mischance appear’d

No graver than as when some little cloud

Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 130

And isles a light in the offing: yet the wife—

When he was gone—the children—what to do?

Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans;

To sell the boat—and yet he loved her well—

How many a rough sea had he weathered in her! 135

He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse—

And yet to sell her—then with what she brought

Buy goods and stores—set Annie forth in trade

With all that seamen needed or their wives—

So might she keep the house while he was gone. 140

Should he not trade himself out yonder? go

This voyage more than once? yea, twice or thrice—

As oft as needed—last, returning rich,

Become the master of a larger craft,

With fuller profits lead an easier life, 145

Have all his pretty young ones educated,

And pass his days in peace among his own.

Thus Enoch in his heart determined all:

Then moving homeward came on Annie pale,

Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born. 150

Forward she started with a happy cry,

And laid the feeble infant in his arms;

Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs,

Appraised his weight and fondled fatherlike,

But had no heart to break his purposes 155

To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke.

Then first since Enoch’s golden ring had girt

Her finger, Annie fought against his will:

Yet not with brawling opposition she,

But manifold entreaties, many a tear, 160

Many a sad kiss by day or night renew’d

(Sure that all evil would come out of it)

Besought him, supplicating, if he cared

For her or his dear children, not to go.

He not for his own self caring but her, 165

Her and her children, let her plead in vain;

So grieving held his will, and bore it thro.’

For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend,

Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand

To fit their little streetward sitting-room 170

With shelf and corner for the goods and stores.

So all day long till Enoch’s last at home,

Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe,

Auger and saw, while Annie seem’d to hear

Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill’d and rang 175

Till this was ended, and his careful hand,—

The space was narrow,—having order’d all

Almost as neat and close as nature packs

Her blossom or her seedling, paused; and he,

Who needs would work for Annie to the last, 180

Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn.

And Enoch faced this morning of farewell

Brightly and boldly. All his Annie’s fears,

Save as his Annie’s, were a laughter to him.

Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man 185

Bow’d himself down, and in that mystery

Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God,

Pray’d for a blessing on his wife and babes

Whatever came to him: and then he said

‘Annie, this voyage by the grace of God 190

Will bring fair weather yet to all of us.

Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me,

For I’ll be back, my girl, before you know it.’

Then lightly rocking baby’s cradle ‘and he,

This pretty, puny, weakly little one,— 195

Nay—for I love him all the better for it—

God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees

And I will tell him tales of foreign parts,

And make him merry, when I come home again.

Come Annie, come, cheer up before I go.’ 200

Him running on thus hopefully she heard,

And almost hoped herself; but when he turn’d

The current of his talk to greater things

In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing

On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard, 205

Heard and not heard him; as the village girl,

Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring,

Musing on him that used to fill it for her,

Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow.

At length she spoke ‘O Enoch, you are wise; 210

And yet for all your wisdom well know I

That I shall look upon your face no more.’

‘Well then,’ said Enoch, ‘I shall look on yours.

Annie, the ship I sail in passes here

(He named the day) get you a seaman’s glass, 215

Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears.’

But when the last of those last moments came,

‘Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted,

Look to the babes, and till I come again,

Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. 220

And fear no more for me; or if you fear

Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.

Is He not yonder in those uttermost

Parts of the morning? if I flee to these

Can I go from Him? and the sea is His, 225

The sea is His: He made it.’

Enoch rose,

Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife,

And kiss’d his wonder-stricken little ones;

But for the third, the sickly one, who slept 230

After a night of feverous wakefulness,

When Annie would have raised him Enoch said

‘Wake him not; let him sleep; how should the child

Remember this?’ and kiss’d him in his cot.

But Annie from her baby’s forehead clipt 235

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 240

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 245

She watch’d it, and departed weeping for him;

Then, tho’ she mourned 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 250

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 255

Than what she gave in buying what she sold:

She failed and sadden’d knowing it; and thus,

Expectant of that news which never came,

Gain’d for her own a scanty sustenance,

And lived a life of silent melancholy. 260

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 called her from it,

Or thro’ the want of what it needed most, 265

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. 270

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, 275

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, 280

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 come to ask a favour of you.’ 285

He spoke; the passion in her moan’d reply

‘Favour from one so sad and so forlorn

As I am!’ half abashed him; yet unask’d,

His bashfulness and tenderness at war,

He set himself beside her, saying to her: 290

‘I came to speak to you of what he wished,

Enoch, your husband: I have ever said

You chose the best among us—a strong man:

For where he fixt his heart he set his hand

To do the thing he will’d, and bore it thro’. 295

And wherefore did he go this weary way,

And leave you lonely? not to see the world—

For pleasure?—nay, but for the wherewithal

To give his babes a better bringing-up

Than his had been, or yours: that was his wish. 300

And if he come again, vext will he be

To find the precious morning hours were lost.

And it would vex him even in his grave,

If he could know his babes were running wild

Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now— 305

Have we not known each other all our lives?

I do beseech you by the love you bear

Him and his children not to say me nay—

For, if you will, when Enoch comes again

Why then he shall repay me—if you will, 310

Annie—for I am rich and well-to-do.

Now let me put the boy and girl to school:

This is the favour that I came to ask.’

Then Annie with her brows against the wall

Answer’d ‘I cannot look you in the face; 315

I seem so foolish and so broken down.

When you came in my sorrow broke me down;

And now I think your kindness breaks me down;

But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me:

He will repay you: money can be repaid; 320

Not kindness such as yours.’

And Philip ask’d

‘Then you will let me, Annie?’

There she turn’d,

She rose, and fixed her swimming eyes upon him, 325

And dwelt a moment on his kindly face,

Then calling down a blessing on his head

Caught at his hand, and wrung it passionately,

And past into the little garth beyond.

So lifted up in spirit he moved away. 330

Then Philip put the boy and girl to school,

And bought them needful books, and everyway,

Like one who does his duty by his own,

Made himself theirs; and tho’ for Annie’s sake,

Fearing the lazy gossip of the port, 335

He oft denied his heart his dearest wish,

And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent

Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit,

The late and early roses from his wall,

Or conies from the down, and now and then, 340

With some pretext of fineness in the meal

To save the offence of charitable, flour

From his tall mill that whistled on the waste.

But Philip did not fathom Annie’s mind:

Scarce could the woman when he came upon her, 345

Out of full heart and boundless gratitude

Light on a broken word to thank him with.

But Philip was her children’s all-in-all;

From distant corners of the street they ran

To greet his hearty welcome heartily; 350

Lords of his house and of his mill were they;

Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs

Or pleasures, hung upon him, play’d with him

And call’d him Father Philip. Philip gain’d

As Enoch lost; for Enoch seem’d to them 355

Uncertain as a vision or a dream,

Faint as a figure seen in early dawn

Down at the far end of an avenue,

Going we know not where: and so ten years,

Since Enoch left his hearth and native land, 360

Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came.

It chanced one evening Annie’s children long’d

To go with others, nutting to the wood,

And Annie would go with them; then they begg’d

For Father Philip (as they call’d him) too: 365

Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust,

Blanch’d with his mill, they found; and saying to him

‘Come with us father Philip’ he denied;

But when the children pluck’d at him to go,

He laugh’d and yielded readily to their wish, 370

For was not Annie with them? and they went.

But after scaling half the weary down,

Just where the prone edge of the wood began

To feather toward the hollow, all her force

Fail’d her; and sighing ‘Let me rest’ she said; 375

So Philip rested with her well-content;

While all the younger ones with jubilant cries

Broke from their elders, and tumultuously

Down thro’ the whitening hazels made a plunge

To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke 380

The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away

Their tawny clusters, crying to each other

And calling, here and there, about the wood.

But Philip sitting at her side forgot

Her presence, and remember’d one dark hour 385

Here in this wood, when like a wounded life

He crept into the shadow: at last he said

Lifting his honest forehead, ‘Listen, Annie,

How merry they are down yonder in the wood.’

‘Tired, Annie?’ for she did not speak a word. 390

‘Tired?’ but her face had fallen upon her hands;

At which as with a kind of anger in him,

‘The ship was lost,’ he said, ‘the ship was lost!

No more of that! why should you kill yourself

And make them orphans quite?’ And Annie said 395

‘I thought not of it: but—I know not why—

Their voices make me feel so solitary.’

Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke.

‘Annie, there is a thing upon my mind,

And it has been upon my mind so long, 400

That tho’ I know not when it first came there,

I know that it will out at last. O Annie,

It is beyond all hope, against all chance,

That he who left you ten long years ago

Should still be living; well then—let me speak: 405

I grieve to see you poor and wanting help:

I cannot help you as I wish to do

Unless—they say that women are so quick—

Perhaps you know what I would have you know—

I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove 410

A father to your children: I do think

They love me as a father: I am sure

That I love them as if they were mine own;

And I believe, if you were fast my wife,

That after all these sad uncertain years, 415

We might be still as happy as God grants

To any of His creatures. Think upon it:

For I am well-to-do—no kin, no care,

No burthen, save my care for you and yours:

And we have known each other all our lives, 420

And I have loved you longer than you know.’

Then answer’d Annie; tenderly she spoke:

‘You have been as God’s good angel in our house.

God bless you for it, God reward you for it,

Philip, with something happier than myself. 425

Can one love twice? can you be ever loved

As Enoch was? what is it that you ask?’

‘I am content’ he answer’d ‘to be loved