And life yields nothing further to recall
Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown,
No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven

Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven.

FROM "DON JUAN," CANTO II

THE SHIPWRECK

XLIX

'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Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown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.

L

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.

"The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map, And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap; But Rome is as the desert where we steer

Stumbling o'er recollections."

Childe Harold, Canto IV, stanza lxxxi, p. 82.

LI

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.

LII

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.

LIII

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.

LIV

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.

LX

'Twas a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet,
That the sail was becalm'd between the seas,
Though on the wave's high top too much to set,
They dared not take it in for all the breeze:
Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet,
And made them bale without a moment's ease,
So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd,
And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd.

LXI

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.