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my love! (you rascal, Pedro, quicker)—

      O, Julia! (this curst vessel pitches so)—

      Beloved Julia, hear me still beseeching!'

      (Here he grew inarticulate with retching.)

      He felt that chilling heaviness of heart,

      Or rather stomach, which, alas! attends,

      Beyond the best apothecary's art,

      The loss of love, the treachery of friends,

      Or death of those we dote on, when a part

      Of us dies with them as each fond hope ends:

      No doubt he would have been much more pathetic,

      But the sea acted as a strong emetic. I

      Love 's a capricious power: I 've known it hold

      Out through a fever caused by its own heat,

      But be much puzzled by a cough and cold,

      And find a quincy very hard to treat;

      Against all noble maladies he 's bold,

      But vulgar illnesses don't like to meet,

      Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh,

      Nor inflammations redden his blind eye.

      But worst of all is nausea, or a pain

      About the lower region of the bowels;

      Love, who heroically breathes a vein,

      Shrinks from the application of hot towels,

      And purgatives are dangerous to his reign,

      Sea-sickness death: his love was perfect, how else

      Could Juan's passion, while the billows roar,

      Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before?

      The ship, call'd the most holy 'Trinidada,'

      Was steering duly for the port Leghorn;

      For there the Spanish family Moncada

      Were settled long ere Juan's sire was born:

      They were relations, and for them he had a

      Letter of introduction, which the morn

      Of his departure had been sent him by

      His Spanish friends for those in Italy.

      His suite consisted of three servants and

      A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo,

      Who several languages did understand,

      But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow,

      And rocking in his hammock, long'd for land,

      His headache being increased by every billow;

      And the waves oozing through the port-hole made

      His berth a little damp, and him afraid.

      'T was not without some reason, for the wind

      Increased at night, until it blew a gale;

      And though 't was not much to a naval mind,

      Some landsmen would have look'd a little pale,

      For sailors are, in fact, a different kind:

      At sunset they began to take in sail,

      For the sky show'd it would come on to blow,

      And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so.

      At one o'clock the wind with sudden shift

      Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea,

      Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift,

      Started the stern-post, also shatter'd the

      Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could lift

      Herself from out her present jeopardy,

      The rudder tore away: 't was time to sound

      The pumps, and there were four feet water found.

      One gang of people instantly was put

      Upon the pumps and the remainder set

      To get up part of the cargo, and what not;

      But they could not come at the leak as yet;

      At last they did get at it really, but

      Still their salvation was an even bet:

      The water rush'd through in a way quite puzzling,

      While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslin,

      Into the opening; but all such ingredients

      Would have been vain, and they must have gone down,

      Despite of all their efforts and expedients,

      But for the pumps: I 'm glad to make them known

      To all the brother tars who may have need hence,

      For fifty tons of water were upthrown

      By them per hour, and they had all been undone,

      But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London.

      As day advanced the weather seem'd to abate,

      And then the leak they reckon'd to reduce,

      And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet

      Kept two hand and one chain-pump still in use.

      The wind blew fresh again: as it grew late

      A squall came on, and while some guns broke loose,

      A gust—which all descriptive power transcends—

      Laid with one blast the ship on her beam ends.

      There she lay motionless, and seem'd upset;

      The water left the hold, and wash'd the decks,

      And made a scene men do not soon forget;

      For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks,

      Or any other thing that brings regret,

      Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks:

      Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the divers,

      And swimmers, who may chance to be survivors.

      Immediately the masts were cut away,

      Both main and mizen; first the mizen went,

      The main-mast follow'd: but the ship still lay

      Like a mere log, and baffled our intent.

      Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they

      Eased her at last (although we never meant

      To part with all till every hope was blighted),

      And then with violence the old ship righted.

      It may be easily supposed, while this

      Was going on, some people were unquiet,

      That passengers would find it much amiss

      To lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet;

      That even the able seaman, deeming his

      Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot,

      As upon such occasions tars will ask

      For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask.

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