3 books to know Juvenalian Satire. Lord Byron

as hopes were damp'd,

      And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd.

      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.

      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

      Were 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.

      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.

      'T is 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 miseries miseries of alarming brevity.

      'T is 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.

      'T is 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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      On the sixth day they fed upon his hide,

      And Juan, who had still refused, because

      The creature was his father's dog that died,

      Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws,

      With some remorse received (though first denied)

      As a great favour one of the fore-paws,

      Which he divided with Pedrillo, who

      Devour'd it, longing for the other too.

      The seventh day, and no wind—the burning sun

      Blister'd and scorch'd, and, stagnant on the sea,

      They lay like carcasses; and hope was none,

      Save in the breeze that came not; savagely

      They glared upon each other—all was done,

      Water, and wine, and food,—and you might see

      The longings of the cannibal arise

      (Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes.

      At length one whisper'd his companion, who

      Whisper'd another, and thus it went round,

      And then into a hoarser murmur grew,

      An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound;

      And when his comrade's thought each sufferer knew,

      'T was but his own, suppress'd till now, he found:

      And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood,

      And who should die to be his fellow's food.

      But ere they came to this, they that day shared

      Some