3 books to know Juvenalian Satire. Lord Byron

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      Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown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 drunk, he jump'd into the wave

      As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross,

      And so he found a wine-and-watery grave;

      They could not rescue him although so close,

      Because the sea ran higher every minute,

      And for the boat—the crew kept crowding in it.

      A small old spaniel,—which had been Don Jose's,

      His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think,

      For on such things the memory reposes

      With tenderness—stood howling on the brink,

      Knowing (dogs have such intellectual noses!),

      No doubt, the vessel was about to sink;

      And Juan caught him up, and ere he stepp'd

      Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd.

      He also stuff'd his money where he could

      About his person, and Pedrillo's too,

      Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would,

      Not knowing what himself to say, or do,

      As every rising wave his dread renew'd;

      But Juan, trusting they might still get through,

      And deeming there were remedies for any ill,

      Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel.

      'T was 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