LXXVII. The surgeon, as there was no other fee, Preferr❜d a draught from the fast-flowing veins : And such things as the entrails and the brains Regaled two sharks, who follow'd o'er the billowThe sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo. LXXVIII. The sailors ate him, all save three or four, Dine with them on his pastor and his master. 'Twas better that he did not; for, in fact, The consequence was awful in the extreme: For they, who were most ravenous in the act, Went raging mad-Lord! how they did blaspheme! And foam and roll, with strange convulsions rack'd, Drinking salt-water like a mountain-stream, Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing, And, with hyena laughter, died despairing. LXXX. Their numbers were much thinn'd by this infliction, And all the rest were thin enough, heaven knows; And some of them had lost their recollection, Happier than they who still perceived their woes; ** But others ponder❜d on a new dissection, LXXXI. And next they thought upon the master's mate, And that which chiefly proved his saving clause, LXXXII. Of poor Pedrillo something still remain'd, LXXXIII. And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be, 'Tis surely fair to dine upon our friends, When shipwreck's short allowance grows too scanty, Without being much more horrible than Dante. LXXXIV. And the same night there fell a shower of rain, For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks of earth When dried to summer dust; till taught by pain, Men really know not what good water's worth; If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, Or with a famish'd boat's-crew had your birth, You'd wish yourself where Truth is-in a well. It pour'd down torrents, but they were no richer Might not have thought the scanty draught so sweet As a full pot of porter, to their thinking They ne'er till now had known the joys of drinking. LXXXVI. And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack, A drop of dew, when every drop had seem'd LXXXVII. There were two fathers in this ghastly crew, Was more robust and hardy to the view, But he died early; and when he was gone, His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw One glance on him, and said, «Heaven's will be done ་ I can do nothing,» and he saw him thrown Into the deep without a tear or groan. LXXXVIII. The other father had a weaklier child, And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised And when the wish'd-for shower at length was come, And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed, Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to roam, He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain Into his dying child's mouth-but in vain. XC. The boy expired-the father held the clay, And look'd upon it long, and when at last Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past, He watch'd it wistfully, until away 'Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas cast; Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shivering, And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering. XCI. Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark sea, Resting its bright base on the quivering blue ; And all within its arch appear'd to be Clearer than that without, and its wide hue Wax'd broad and waving, like a banner free, It changed, of course; a heavenly cameleon, Our shipwreck'd seamen thought it a good omen- XCIV. About this time a beautiful white bird, |