3 books to know Juvenalian Satire. Lord Byron

's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms

      As rum and true religion: thus it was,

      Some plunder'd, some drank spirits, some sung psalms,

      The high wind made the treble, and as bas

      The hoarse harsh waves kept time; fright cured the qualms

      Of all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick maws:

      Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion,

      Clamour'd in chorus to the roaring ocean.

      Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for

      Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years,

      Got to the spirit-room, and stood before

      It with a pair of pistols; and their fears,

      As if Death were more dreadful by his door

      Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears,

      Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk,

      Thought it would be becoming to die drunk.

      'Give us more grog,' they cried, 'for it will be

      All one an hour hence.' Juan answer'd, 'No!

      'T is true that death awaits both you and me,

      But let us die like men, not sink below

      Like brutes;'—and thus his dangerous post kept he,

      And none liked to anticipate the blow;

      And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor,

      Was for some rum a disappointed suitor.

      The good old gentleman was quite aghast,

      And made a loud and pious lamentation;

      Repented all his sins, and made a last

      Irrevocable vow of reformation;

      Nothing should tempt him more (this peril past)

      To quit his academic occupation,

      In cloisters of the classic Salamanca,

      To follow Juan's wake, like Sancho Panca.

      But now there came a flash of hope once more;

      Day broke, and the wind lull'd: the masts were gone,

      The leak increased; shoals round her, but no shore,

      The vessel swam, yet still she held her own.

      They tried the pumps again, and though before

      Their desperate efforts seem'd all useless grown,

      A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale—

      The stronger pump'd, the weaker thrumm'd a sail.

      Under the vessel's keel the sail was past,

      And for the moment it had some effect;

      But with a leak, and not a stick of mast,

      Nor rag of canvas, what could they expect?

      But still 't is best to struggle to the last,

      'T is never too late to be wholly wreck'd:

      And though 't is true that man can only die once,

      'T is not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons.

      There winds and waves had hurl'd them, and from thence,

      Without their will, they carried them away;

      For they were forced with steering to dispense,

      And never had as yet a quiet day

      On which they might repose, or even commence

      A jurymast or rudder, or could say

      The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck,

      Still swam—though not exactly like a duck.

      The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less,

      But the ship labour'd so, they scarce could hope

      To weather out much longer; the distress

      Was also great with which they had to cope

      For want of water, and their solid mess

      Was scant enough: in vain the telescope

      Was used—nor sail nor shore appear'd in sight,

      Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night.

      Again the weather threaten'd,—again blew

      A gale, and in the fore and after hold

      Water appear'd; yet, though the people knew

      All this, the most were patient, and some bold,

      Until the chains and leathers were worn through

      Of all our pumps:—a wreck complete she roll'd,

      At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are

      Like human beings during civil war.

      Then came the carpenter, 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;

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