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XCV.

But in this case I also must remark,

'T was well this bird of promise did not perch, Because the tackle of our shatter'd bark

Was not so safe for roosting as a church; And had it been the dove from Noah's ark,

Returning there from her successful search, Which in their way that moment chanced to fall, They would have eat her, olive-branch and all. XCVI.

With twilight it again came on to blow,

But not with violence; the stars shone out, The boat made way; yet now they were so low,

They knew not where nor what they were about; Some fancied they saw land, and some said "No!" The frequent fog-banks gave them cause to doubt Some swore that they heard breakers, others guns, And all mistook about the latter once.

XCVII.

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And seem'd as if they had no further care; While a few pray'd— (the first time for some years)And at the bottom of the boat three were Asleep they shook them by the hand and head, And tried to awaken them, but found them dead. XCIX.

The day before, fast sleeping on the water,

They found a turtle of the hawk's-bill kind, And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her, 4 Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind Proved even still a more nutritious matter, Because it left encouragement behind : They thought that in such perils, more than chance Had sent them this for their deliverance.

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["I found it necessary to caution the people against being deceived by the appearance of land, or calling out till they were convinced of the reality, more especially as fog-banks are often mistaken for land: several of the poor fellows nevertheless repeatedly exclaimed they heard breakers, and some the firing of guns." — Ibid.]

["At length one of them broke into a most immoderate swearing fit of joy, which I could not restrain, and declared, that he had never seen land in his life, if what he now saw was not land."- Centaur.]

3["The joy at a speedy relief affected us all in a most remarkable way. Many burst into tears; some looked at each other with a stupid stare, as if doubtful of the reality of what they saw; while several were in such a lethargic condition, that no animating words could rouse them to exertion. At

To what part of the earth they had been tost,

So changeable had been the winds that blew; Some thought it was Mount Etna, some the highlands Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands. CI.

Meantime the current, with a rising gale,

Still set them onwards to the welcome shore, Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale:

Their living freight was now reduced to four, And three dead, whom their strength could not avail To heave into the deep with those before, Though the two sharks still follow'd them, and dash'd The spray into their faces as they splash'd.

CII.

Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat, had done
Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd them to
Such things a mother had not known her son
Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew; 5
By night chill'd, by day scorch'd, thus one by one
They perish'd, until wither'd to these few,
But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter,
In washing down Pedrillo with salt water.

CIII.

As they drew nigh the land, which now was seen
Unequal in its aspect here and there,
They felt the freshness of its growing green,
That waved in forest-tops, and smooth'd the air,
And fell upon their glazed eyes like a screen

From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare —
Lovely seem'd any object that should sweep
Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep.

CIV.

The shore look'd wild, without a trace of man,
And girt by formidable waves; but they
Were mad for land, and thus their course they ran,
Though right ahead the roaring breakers lay:
A reef between them also now began

To show its boiling surf and bounding spray, But finding no place for their landing better, They ran the boat for shore, and overset her.6

CV.

But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont ; And having learnt to swim in that sweet river, Had often turn'd the art to some account: A better swimmer you could scarce see ever,

He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont, As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided) Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did. 7

this affecting period, I proposed offering up our solemn thanks to Heaven for the miraculous deliverance."- Lady Hobart.]

["After having suffered the horrors of hunger and thirst for many days, they providentially took a small turtle whilst floating asleep on the surface of the water."-Thomas.]

["Our bodies were nothing but skin and bones, our limbs were full of sores, and we were clothed in rags. An indifferent spectator would have been at a loss which most to admire, the eyes of famine sparkling at immediate relief, or the horror of their preservers at the sight of so many spectres, whose ghastly countenances, if the cause had been unknown, would rather have excited terror than pity."- BLIGH.]

6["They discovered land right ahead, and steered for it. There being a very heavy surf, they endeavoured to turn the boat's head to it, which, from weakness, they were unable to complete, and soon afterwards the boat upset."— Escape of Deserters from St. Helena.]

7 [See antè, p. 545.1

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CVI.

So here, though faint, emaciated, and stark,
He buoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove to ply
With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark,
The beach which lay before him, high and dry:
The greatest danger here was from a shark,

That carried off his neighbour by the thigh;
As for the other two, they could not swim,
So nobody arrived on shore but him.

CVII.

Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar,

Which, providentially for him, was wash'd Just as his feeble arms could strike no more,

And the hard wave o'erwhelmed him as 't was dash'd Within his grasp; he clung to it, and sore

The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd; At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he Roll'd on the beach, half-senseless, from the sea :

CVIII.

There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung
Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave,
From whose reluctant roar his life he wrung,

Should suck him back to her insatiate grave:
And there he lay, full length, where he was flung,
Before the entrance of a cliff-worn cave,
With just enough of life to feel its pain,
And deem that it was saved, perhaps, in vain.

CIX.

With slow and staggering effort he arose,

But sunk again upon his bleeding knee And quivering hand; and then he look'd for those Who long had been his mates upon the sea; But none of them appear'd to share his woes,

Save one, a corpse, from out the famish'd three, Who died two days before, and now had found An unknown barren beach for burial ground. CX.

And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast,

And down he sunk; and as he sunk, the sand
Swam round and round, and all his senses pass'd:
He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd hand
Droop'd dripping on the oar (their jury-mast),
And, like a wither'd lily, on the land
His slender frame and pallid aspect lay,
As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay.
CXI.

How long in his damp trance young Juan lay
He knew not, for the earth was gone for him,
And Time had nothing more of night nor day
For his congealing blood, and senses dim ;
And how this heavy faintness pass'd away

He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb,
And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life,
For Death, though vanquish'd, still retired with strife.

CXII.

His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed,

For all was doubt and dizziness; he thought
He still was in the boat, and had but dozed,
And felt again with his despair o'erwrought,
And wish'd it death in which he had reposed,
And then once more his feelings back were
brought,

And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen
A lovely female face of seventeen.

CXIII

"T was bending close o'er his, and the smali mouth
Seem'd almost prying into his for breath;
And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth
Recall'd his answering spirits back from death;
And, bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe
Each pulse to animation, till beneath
Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh
To these kind efforts made a low reply.
CXIV.

Then was the cordial pour'd, and mantle flung
Around his scarce-clad limbs; and the fair arm
Raised higher the faint head which o'er it hung;
And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm,
Pillow'd his death-like forehead; then she wrung

His dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm;
And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew
A sigh from his heaved bosom-and hers, too.
CXV.

And lifting him with care into the cave,

The gentle girl, and her attendant,-one Young, yet her elder, and of brow less grave, And more robust of figure, then begun To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave Light to the rocks that roof 'd them, which the sun Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoc'er She was, appcar'd distinct, and tall, and fair.

CXVI.

Her brow was overhung with coins of gold,

That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair, Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roll'd In braids behind; and though her stature were Even of the highest for a female mould,

They nearly reach'd her heel; and in her air There was a something which bespoke command, As one who was a lady in the land.

CXVII.

Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyes

Were black as death, their lashes the same hue, Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies Deepest attraction; for when to the view Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies,

Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew ; 'Tis as the snake late coil'd, who pours his length, And hurls at once his venom and his strength.

CXVIII.

Her brow was white and low, her cheek's pure dye
Like twilight rosy still with the set sun;
Short upper lip-sweet lips! that make us sigh
Ever to have seen such; for she was one
Fit for the model of a statuary

(A race of mere impostors, when all 's done.
I've seen much finer women, ripe and real,
Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal). 1
CXIX.

I'll tell you why I say so, for 't is just

One should not rail without a decent cause: There was an Irish lady, to whose bust

I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was

A frequent model; and if e'er she must

Yield to stern Time and Nature's wrinkling laws, They will destroy a face which mortal thought. Ne'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel wrought.

["A set of humbug rascals, when all 's done.
I've seen much finer women, ripe and real,
Than all the nonsense of their dd ideal."- MS.

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CXXVII.

He was a Greek, and on his isle had built
(One of the wild and smaller Cyclades)
A very handsome house from out his guilt,
And there he lived exceedingly at ease;
Heaven knows what cash he got, or blood he spilt,
A sad old fellow was he, if you please;
But this I know, it was a spacious building,
Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding.

CXXVIII.

He had an only daughter, call'd Haidée,
The greatest heiress of the Eastern Isles;
Besides, so very beautiful was she,

Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles:
Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree

She grew to womanhood, and between whiles Rejected several suitors, just to learn How to accept a better in his turn.

CXXIX.

And walking out upon the beach, below

The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found, Insensible,- -not dead, but nearly so,—

Don Juan, almost famish'd, and half drown'd;
But being naked, she was shock'd, you know,
Yet deem'd herself in common pity bound,
As far as in her lay, "to take him in,

A stranger" dying, with so white a skin.
CXXX.

But taking him into her father's house
Was not exactly the best way to save,
But like conveying to the cat the mouse,

Or people in a trance into their grave;
Because the good old man had so much "YOU,"
Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave,
He would have hospitably cured the stranger,
And sold him instantly when out of danger.

CXXXI.

And therefore, with her maid, she thought it best (A virgin always on her maid relies)

To place him in the cave for present rest:

And when, at last, he open'd his black eyes, Their charity increased about their guest;

And their compassion grew to such a size, It open'd half the turnpike-gates to heaven(St. Paul says, 't is the toll which must be given.)

CXXXII.

They made a fire,—but such a fire as they
Upon the moment could contrive with such
Materials as were cast up round the bay,-
Some broken planks, and oars, that to the touch
Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay

A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch;
But, by God's grace, here wrecks were in such plenty,
That there was fuel to have furnish'd twenty.
CXXXIII.

He had a bed of furs, and a pelisse,

For Haidée stripp'd her sables off to make His couch; and, that he might be more at ease, And warm, in case by chance he should awake, They also gave a petticoat apiece, 1

She and her maid,—and promised by daybreak To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish.

1 ["And such a bed of furs, and a pelisse."-MS.]

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And pensive to her father's house she went,
Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who

Better than her knew what, in fact, she meant,
She being wiser by a year or two:

A year or two's an age when rightly spent,
And Zoe spent hers, as most women do,
In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge
Which is acquired in Nature's good old college.
CXXXVII.

The morn broke, and found Juan slumbering still
Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd upon
His rest; the rushing of the neighbouring rill,
And the young beams of the excluded sun,
Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill;
And need he had of slumber yet, for none
Had suffer'd more-his hardships were comparative 2
To those related in my grand-dad's "Narrative." 3
CXXXVIII.

Not so Haidée: she sadly toss'd and tumbled,

And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er, Dream'd of a thousand wrecks, o'er which she stumbled,

And handsome corpses strew'd upon the shore;
And woke her maid so early that she grumbled,
And call'd her father's old slaves up, who swore
In several oaths-Armenian, Turk, and Greek—
They knew not what to think of such a freak.
CXXXIX.

But up she got, and up she made them get,
With some pretence about the sun, that makes
Sweet skies just when he rises, or is set;

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- MS.]

And come like opening hell upon the mind, No baseless fabric,' but a wreck behind.'”. 2["Had e'er escaped more dangers on the deep ; — And those who are not drown'd, at least may sleep."— MS.]

[Entitled "A Narrative of the Honourable John Byron (Commodore in a late expedition round the world), containing an account of the great distresses suffered by himself and his companions on the coast of Patagonia. from the year 1740, till their arrival in England, 1746; written by Himself." This narrative, one of the most interesting that ever appeared, was published in 1768.]

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"Wore for a husband-or some such like brute."-MS.] ["although of late

I've changed, for some few years, the day to night."-MS.] [In the year 1784, Dr. Franklin published a most ingenious essay on the advantages of early rising, as a mere piece

Bright Phoebus, while the mountains still are wet
With mist, and every bird with him awakes,
And night is flung off like a mourning suit
Worn for a husband, or some other brute. 4
CXL.

I say, the sun is a most glorious sight,

I've seen him rise full oft, indeed of late I have sat up on purpose all the night, 5 Which hastens, as physicians say, one's fate; And so all ye, who would be in the right

In health and purse 6, begin your day to date From daybreak, and when coffin'd at fourscore, Engrave upon the plate, you rose at four. 7

CXLI.

And Haidée met the morning face to face;

Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race From heart to cheek is curb'd into a blush, Like to a torrent which a mountain's base,

That overpowers some Alpine river's rush, Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread; Or the Red Sea-but the sea is not red. 8

CXLII.

And down the cliff the island virgin came,

And near the cave her quick light footsteps drew, While the sun smiled on her with his first flame, And young Aurora kiss'd her lips with dew, Taking her for a sister; just the same

Mistake you would have made on seeing the two, Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair, Had all the advantage, too, of not being air. 9

CXLIII.

And when into the cavern Haidée stepp'd
All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw
That like an infant Juan sweetly slept;

And then she stopp'd, and stood as if in awe (For sleep is awful), and on tiptoe crept

And wrapt him closer, lest the air, too raw, Should reach his blood, then o'er him still as death Bent, with hush'd lips, that drank his scarce-drawn breath.

CXLIV.

And thus like to an angel o'er the dying

Who die in righteousness, she lean'd; and there All tranquilly the shipwreck'd boy was lying, As o'er him lay the calm and stirless air: But Zoe the meantime some eggs was frying,

Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair Must breakfast, and betimes-lest they should ask it, She drew out her provision from the basket.

of economy. He estimates the saving that might be made in Paris alone, by using sunshine instead of candles, at ninetysix millions of French livres, or four millions sterling per annum.-HILL.]

7 [The plan of going to bed early, and rising betimes, has been called the golden rule for the attainment of health and long life. It is sanctioned by various proverbial expressions; and when old people have been examined, regarding the causes of their long life, they uniformly agreed in one particular, that they went to bed early, and rose early. - SIR JOHN SINCLAIR.]

8["My opinion is, that it is from the large trees or plants of coral, spread everywhere over the bottom of the Red Sea, perfectly in imitation of plants on land, that it has obtained this name."- BRUCE.]

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CXLV.

She knew that the best feelings must have victual, And that a shipwreck'd youth would hungry be; Besides, being less in love, she yawn'd a little,

And felt her veins chill'd by the neighbouring sea; And so, she cook'd their breakfast to a tittle;

I can't say that she gave them any tea, But there were eggs, fruit, coffee, bread, fish, honey, With Scio wine, and all for love, not money. CXLVI.

And Zoe, when the eggs were ready, and

The coffee made, would fain have waken'd Juan; But Haidée stopp'd her with her quick small hand, And without word, a sign her finger drew on Her lip, which Zoe needs must understand;

And, the first breakfast spoilt, prepared a new one,
Because her mistress would not let her break
That sleep which seem'd as it would ne'er awake.
CXLVII.

For still he lay, and on his thin worn cheek
A purple hectic play'd like dying day
On the snow-tops of distant hills; the streak
Of sufferance yet upon his forehead lay,
Where the blue veins look'd shadowy,shrunk, and weak;
And his black curls were dewy with the spray,
Which weigh'd upon them yet, all damp and salt,
Mix'd with the stony vapours of the vault.

CXLVIII.

And she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath,
Hush'd as the babe upon its mother's breast,
Droop'd as the willow when no winds can breathe,
Lull'd like the depth of ocean when at rest. 1
Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wreath,
Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest;

In short, he was a very pretty fellow,
Although his woes had turn'd him rather yellow.
CXLIX.

He woke and gazed, and would have slept again,
But the fair face which met his eyes forbade
Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain
Had further sleep a further pleasure made:
For woman's face was never form'd in vain
For Juan, so that even when he pray'd
He turn'd from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy,
To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mary.
CL.

And thus upon his elbow he arose,

And look'd upon the lady, in whose cheek The pale contended with the purple rose,

As with an effort she began to speak;
Her eyes were eloquent, her words would pose,
Although she told him, in good modern Greek,
With an Ionian accent, low and sweet,
That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat.
CLI.

Now Juan could not understand a word,
Being no Grecian; but he had an ear,
And her voice was the warble of a bird,
So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear,
That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard; 2
The sort of sound we echo with a tear,
Without knowing why-an overpowering tone,
Whence Melody descends as from a throne.

1["Fair as the rose just pluck'd to crown the wreath, Soft as the unfledged birdling when at rest."- MS.

CLII.

And Juan gazed as one who is awoke

By a distant organ, doubting if he be Not yet a dreamer, till the spell is broke By the watchman, or some such reality, Or by one's early valet's cursed knock; At least it is a heavy sound to me, Who like a morning slumber-for the night Shows stars and women in a better light.

CLIII.

And Juan, too, was help'd out from his dream,
Or sleep, or whatsoe'er it was, by feeling
A most prodigious appetite; the steam
Of Zoe's cookery no doubt was stealing
Upon his senses, and the kindling beam

Of the new fire, which Zoe kept up, kneeling,
To stir her viands, made him quite awake
And long for food, but chiefly a beef-steak.
CLIV.

But beef is rare within these oxless isles;

Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton, And, when a holiday upon them smiles,

A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on: But this occurs but seldom, between whiles,

For some of these are rocks with scarce a hut on;
Others are fair and fertile, among which
This, though not large, was one of the most rich.
CLV.

I say that beef is rare, and can't help thinking
That the old fable of the Minotaur-
From which our modern morals, rightly shrinking,
Condemn the royal lady's taste who wore
A cow's shape for a mask- -was only (sinking
The allegory) a mere type, no more,
That Pasiphae promoted breeding cattle,
To make the Cretans bloodier in battle.
CLVI.

For we all know that English people are
Fed upon beef-I won't say much of beer,
Because 'tis liquor only, and being far

From this my subject, has no business here;
We know, too, they are very fond of war,

A pleasure-like all pleasures—rather dear; So were the Cretans-from which I infer, That beef and battles both were owing to her.

CLVII.

But to resume. The languid Juan raised
His head upon his elbow, and he saw
A sight on which he had not lately gazed,
As all his latter meals had been quite raw,
Three or four things, for which the Lord he praised,
And, feeling still the famish'd vulture gnaw,
He fell upon whate'er was offer'd, like
A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike.

CLVIII.

He ate, and he was well supplied; and she,
Who watch'd him like a mother, would have fed
Him past all bounds, because she smiled to see
Such appetite in one she had deem'd dead:
But Zoe, being older than Haidée,

Knew (by tradition for she ne'er had read)
That famish'd people must be slowly nurst,
And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
2 ["That finer melody was never heard,
The kind of sound whose echo is a tear,

Whose accents are the steps of Music's throne."-MS.]

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