XLII. Again the weather threaten'd,—again blew All this, the most were patient, and some bold, XLIII. Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea, And if he wept at length, they were not fears That made his eyelids as a woman's be, But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children, XLIV. The ship was evidently settling now Fast by the head; and, all distinction gone, Some went to prayers again, and made a vow Of candles to their saints-but there were none To pay them with; and some look'd o'er the bow; Some hoisted cut the boats; and there was one That begg❜d Pedrillo for an absolution, Who told him to be damn'd-in his confusion. XLV. Some lash'd them in their hammocks, some put on Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun, And others went on as they had begun, Getting the boats out, being well aware That a tight boat will live in a rough sea, Unless with breakers close beneath her lee. XLVI. The worst of all, was that in their condition, Having been several days in great distress, 'Twas difficult to get out such provision, As now might render their long suffering less: Men, even when dying, dislike inanition; Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress; Two casks of biscuit, and a keg of butter, Were all that could be thrown into the cutter. XLVII. But in the long-boat they contrived to stow Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet; Water, a twenty gallon cask or so; Six flasks of wine; and they contrived to get A portion of their beef up from below, And with a piece of pork, moreover, met, But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheonThen there was rum, eight gallons, in a puncheon, XLVIII. The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail'; XLIX. 'Twas twilight, for the sunless day went down And hopeless eyes, which o'er the deep alone L. Some trial had been making at a raft, With little hope in such a rolling sea, A sort of thing at which one would have laugh'd, LI. At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars, LII. Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell, Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave, Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave; And the sea yawn'd around her like a bell, And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave, Like one who grapples with his enemy, And strives to strangle him before he die. LIII. And first one universal shriek there rush'd, LIV. The boats, as stated, had got off before, And in them crowded several of the crew; And yet their present hope was hardly more Than what it had been, for so strong it blew There was slight chance of reaching any shore; And then they were too many, though so few: Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat, Were counted in them when they got afloat. LV. All the rest perish'd; near two hundred souls They must wait several weeks before a mass Because, till people know what's come to pass, LVI. Juan got into the long-boat, and there Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair LVII. Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save, But the same cause, conducive to his loss, Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the wave As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross, And so he found a wine-and-watery grave; They could not rescue him although so close, Because the sea ran higher every minute, And for the boat-the crew kept crowding in it. LVIII. A small old spaniel,-which had been Don Jose's, His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think, For on such things the memory reposes With tenderness,-stood howling on the brink, Knowing, (dogs have such intellectual noses!) No doubt, the vessel was about to sink; And Juan caught him up, and ere he stepp'd Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd. LIX. He also stuff'd his money where he could CANTO II.--C |