from Canto II

81

And next they thought upon the master’s mate,
     As fattest; but he saved himself, because,
Besides being much averse from such a fate,
     There were some other reasons; the first was,
He had been rather indisposed of late,
     And that which chiefly proved his saving clause,
Was a small present made to him at Cadiz,
By general subscription of the ladies.

82

Of poor Pedrillo something still remain’d,
     But was used sparingly,—some were afraid,
And others still their appetites constrain’d,
     Or but at times a little supper made;
All except Juan, who throughout abstain’d,
     Chewing a piece of bamboo, and some lead:
At length they caught two boobies, and a noddy,
And then they left off eating the dead body.

83

And if Pedrillo’s fate should shocking be,
    Remember Ugolino condescends
To eat the head of his arch-enemy
     The moment after he politely ends
His tale; if foes be food in hell, at sea
     ‘Tis surely fair to dine upon our friends,
When shipwreck’s short allowance grows too scanty,
Without being much more horrible than Dante.

84

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,
Or in the desert heard the camel’s bell,
You’d wish yourself where Truth is—in a well.

85

It pour’d down torrents, but they were no richer
     Until they found a ragged piece of sheet,
Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher,
     And when they deem’d its moisture was complete,
They wrung it out, and though a thirsty ditcher
     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.

86

And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack,
     Suck’d in the moisture, which like nectar stream’d;
Their throats were ovens, their swoln tongues were black,
     As the rich man’s in hell, who vainly scream’d
To beg the beggar, who could not rain back
     A drop of dew, when every drop had seem’d
To taste of heaven—If this be true, indeed,
Some Christians have a comfortable creed.

87

There were two fathers in this ghastly crew,
     And with them their two sons, of whom the one
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.

88

The other father had a weaklier child,
     Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate;
But the boy bore up long, and with a mild
     And patient spirit held aloof his fate;
Little he said, and now and then he smiled,
     As if to win a part from off the weight
He saw increasing on his father’s heart,
With the deep deadly thought, that they must part.

89

And o’er him bent his sire, and never raised
     His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam
From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed,
     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.

90

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.