For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask. The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck

XLII.

Again the weather threaten'd--again blew
A gale, and in the fore and after hold
Water appear'd; yet, though the people knew

All this, the most were patient, and some bold,
Until the chains and leathers were worn through
Of all our pumps :-a wreck complete she roll'd,
At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are
Like human beings during civil war.

XLIII.

Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears
In his rough eyes, and told the captain he
Could do no more; he was a man in years,

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,
Two things for dying people quite bewildering.

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 out the boats: and there was one That begg'd Pedrillo for absolution,

Who told him to be damn'd-in his confusion.

XLV.

XLIX.

"Twas twilight, for the sunless day went down
Over the waste of waters; like a veil,
Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown
Of one whose hate is masked but to assail;
Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown,
And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale
And the dim desolate deep-twelve days had Fear
Been their familiar, and now Death was here.

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
If any laughter at such times could be,
Unless with people who too much have quaff'd,
And have a kind of wild and horrid glee
Half epileptical, and half hysterical:
Their preservation would have been a miracle

LI.

At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hen-coops, spars
And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose
That still could keep afloat the struggling tars,
For yet they strove, although of no great use:
There was no light in heaven but a few stars;
The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews;
She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port,
And, going down head-foremost-sunk, in short.
LII.

Some lash'd them in their hammocks, some put on Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell,
Their best clothes as if going to a fair;

Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun,
And gnash'd their teeth, and, howling, tore their

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

[hair;

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 luncheon;
Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon.

XLVIII.

l'he other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had
Been stove in the beginning of the gale;
And the long-boat's condition was but bad,
As there were but two blankets for a sail,
And one oar for a mast, which a young lad

Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail;
And two boats could not hold, far less be stored,
To save one half the people then on board.

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 hell,

And down she suck'd with her the whirling ware
Like one who grapples with his enemy,
And strives to strangle him before he die.

LIII.

And first one universal shrick there rush'd,
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd,
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash
Of billows; but at intervals there gush'd,
Accompanied with a convulsive splash,

A solitary shriek-the bubbling cry
Of some strong swimmer in his agony.
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 fer-
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
Had left their bodies; and, what's worse, als
When over Catholies the ocean rolls,

They must wait several weeks, before a mass
Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals,

Because, till people know what's come to pass
They won't lay out their money on the dead-
It costs three francs for every mass that's said.

LVI.

'uan got into the long-boat, and there
Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place;
It seem'd as if they had exchanged their care,
For Juan wore the magisterial face
Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair
Of eyes were crying for their owner's case;
Battista (though a name call'd shortly Tita)
Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita.

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
About his person, and Pedrillo's too,
Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would,
Not knowing what himself to say or do,
As every rising wave his dread renew'd;

But Juan, trusting they might still get through,
And deeming there were remedies for any ill,
Thus reembark'd his tutor and his spaniel.

LX.

I'was a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet,
That the sail was becalm'd between the seas,
Though on the wave's high top too much to set,
They dared not take it in for all the breeze;
Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet,
And made them bale without a moment's ease,
So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd,
And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd.

LXI.

Nine souls more went in her; the long-boat still
Kept above water, with an oar for mast,
Two blankets stitch'd together, answering ill
Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast;
Though every wave roll'd menacing to fill,
And present peril all before surpass'd,

One half sate up, though numb'd with the immer.
While t'other half were laid down in their place,
At watch and watch; thus, shivering like the ter
Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat, [tian
With nothing but the sky for a great-coat.
LXIV.

'Tis very certain the desire of life

Prolongs it; this is obvious to physicians,
When patients, neither plagued with friend nor wife
Survive through very desperate conditions,
Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife
Nor shears of Atropos before their visions.
Despair of all recovery spoils longevity,
And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity.

LXV.

"Tis said that persons living on annuities

Are longer lived than others,-God knows why
Unless to plague the grantors,-yet so true it is
That some, I really think, do never die :
Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is,

And that's their mode of furnishing supply:
In my young days they lent me cash that way,
Which I found very troublesome to pay.

LXVI.

'Tis thus with people in an open boat,

They live upon the love of life, and bear
More than can be believed, or even thought, [tear;
And stand, like rocks, the tempest's wear and
And hardships still has been the sailor's lot,
Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there
She had a curious crew as well as cargo,
Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo

LXVII.

But man is a carnivorous production,

And must have meals, at least one meat a day;
He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction,
But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey ·
Although his anatomical construction

Bears vegetables in a grumbling way,
Your laboring people think, beyond all question.
Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion

LXVIII.

And thus it was with this our hapless crew;
For on the third day there came on a calm,
And though at first their strength it might renew
And, lying on their weariness like balm,
Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on the blue
Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm

They griev'd for those who perish'd with the cutter, And fell all ravenously on their provision,
And also for the biscuit-casks and butter.

LXII.

The sun rose red and fiery a sure sign

Of the continuance of the gale: to run
Before the sea, until it should grow fine,
Was all that for the present could be done:
A few teaspoonfuls of their rum and wine

Was serv'd out to the people, who begun
To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags,
And most of them had little clothes but rags.

Instead of hoarding it with due precision.

LXIX.

The consequence was easily foreseen-
They ate up all they had, and drank their wine
In spite of all remonstrances, and then

On what, in fact, next day were they to dine?
They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men
And carry them to shore: these hopes were fine,
But as they had but one oar, and that brittle.

I would have been more wise to save their victual