from Canto II

61

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,
They grieved for those who perish’d with the cutter,
And also for the biscuit casks and butter.

62

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 tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine
     Was served out to the people, who begun
To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags,
And most of them had little clothes but rags.

63

They counted thirty, crowded in a space
     Which left scarce room for motion or exertion;
They did their best to modify their case,
     One half sate up, though numb’d with the immersion,
While t’other half were laid down in their place,
    At watch and watch; thus, shivering like the tertian
Ague in its cold fit, they fill’d their boat,
With nothing but the sky for a great coat.

64

‘Tis very certain the desire of life
     Prolongs it; this is obvious to physicians,
When patients, neither plagued with friends 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.

65

‘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.

66

‘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,
     And stand like rocks the tempest’s wear and tear;
And hardship 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.

67

But man is a carnivorous production,
     And must have meals, at least one meal 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 labouring people think beyond all question,
Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion.

68

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,
And fell all ravenously on their provision,
Instead of hoarding it with due precision.

69

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,
It would have been more wise to save their victual.

70

The fourth day came, but not a breath of air,
    And Ocean slumber’d like an unwean’d child:
The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there,
     The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild—
With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair)
     What could they do? and hunger’s rage grew wild:
So Juan’s spaniel, spite of his entreating,
Was kill’d, and portion’d out for present eating.