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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.

       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 an absolution,

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

       Some lash'd them in their hammocks; some put on

       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 hair;

       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.

       The worst of all was, that in their condition,

       Having been several days in great distress,

       'T was 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.

       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.

       The 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.

       'T was twilight, and 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 mask'd but to assail,

       Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown,

       And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale,

       And the dim desolate deep: twelve days had Fear

       Been their familiar, and now Death was here.

       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.

       At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, 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.

       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 hell,

       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.

       And first one universal shriek 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.

       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.

       All the rest perish'd; near two hundred souls

       Had left their bodies; and what 's worse, alas!

       When over Catholics 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.

       Juan 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.

       Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save,

       But the same cause, conducive to his loss,

       Left him so

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