Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

  To stay there had not answer’d her intent,

  But why? — we leave the reader in the dark – —

  ‘T was for a voyage that the young man was meant,

  As if a Spanish ship were Noah’s ark,

  To wean him from the wickedness of earth,

  And send him like a dove of promise forth.

  IX

  Don Juan bade his valet pack his things

  According to direction, then received

  A lecture and some money: for four springs

  He was to travel; and though Inez grieved

  (As every kind of parting has its stings),

  She hoped he would improve — perhaps believed:

  A letter, too, she gave (he never read it)

  Of good advice — and two or three of credit.

  X

  In the mean time, to pass her hours away,

  Brave Inez now set up a Sunday school

  For naughty children, who would rather play

  (Like truant rogues) the devil, or the fool;

  Infants of three years old were taught that day,

  Dunces were whipt, or set upon a stool:

  The great success of Juan’s education,

  Spurr’d her to teach another generation.

  XI

  Juan embark’d — the ship got under way,

  The wind was fair, the water passing rough:

  A devil of a sea rolls in that bay,

  As I, who’ve cross’d it oft, know well enough;

  And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray

  Flies in one’s face, and makes it weather-tough:

  And there he stood to take, and take again,

  His first — perhaps his last — farewell of Spain.

  XII

  I can’t but say it is an awkward sight

  To see one’s native land receding through

  The growing waters; it unmans one quite,

  Especially when life is rather new:

  I recollect Great Britain’s coast looks white,

  But almost every other country’s blue,

  When gazing on them, mystified by distance,

  We enter on our nautical existence.

  XIII

  So Juan stood, bewilder’d on the deck:

  The wind sung, cordage strain’d, and sailors swore,

  And the ship creak’d, the town became a speck,

  From which away so fair and fast they bore.

  The best of remedies is a beef-steak

  Against sea-sickness: try it, sir, before

  You sneer, and I assure you this is true,

  For I have found it answer — so may you.

  XIV

  Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern,

  Beheld his native Spain receding far:

  First partings form a lesson hard to learn,

  Even nations feel this when they go to war;

  There is a sort of unexprest concern,

  A kind of shock that sets one’s heart ajar:

  At leaving even the most unpleasant people

  And places, one keeps looking at the steeple.

  XV

  But Juan had got many things to leave,

  His mother, and a mistress, and no wife,

  So that he had much better cause to grieve

  Than many persons more advanced in life;

  And if we now and then a sigh must heave

  At quitting even those we quit in strife,

  No doubt we weep for those the heart endears —

  That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears.

  XVI

  So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews

  By Babel’s waters, still remembering Sion:

  I’d weep, — but mine is not a weeping Muse,

  And such light griefs are not a thing to die on;

  Young men should travel, if but to amuse

  Themselves; and the next time their servants tie on

  Behind their carriages their new portmanteau,

  Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto.

  XVII

  And Juan wept, and much he sigh’d and thought,

  While his salt tears dropp’d into the salt sea,

  “Sweets to the sweet” (I like so much to quote;

  You must excuse this extract, — ’t is where she,

  The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought

  Flowers to the grave); and, sobbing often, he

  Reflected on his present situation,

  And seriously resolved on reformation.

  XVIII

  “Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell!” he cried,

  ”Perhaps I may revisit thee no more,

  But die, as many an exiled heart hath died,

  Of its own thirst to see again thy shore:

  Farewell, where Guadalquivir’s waters glide!

  Farewell, my mother! and, since all is o’er,

  Farewell, too, dearest Julia! — (Here he drew

  Her letter out again, and read it through.)

  XIX

  “And, oh! if e’er I should forget, I swear —

  But that’s impossible, and cannot be —

  Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air,

  Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea,

  Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair!

  Or think of any thing excepting thee;

  A mind diseased no remedy can physic

  (Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-sick).

  XX

  “Sooner shall heaven kiss earth (here he fell sicker),

  Oh, Julia! what is every other woe?

  (For God’s sake let me have a glass of liquor;

  Pedro, Battista, help me down below.)

  Julia, my love! (you rascal, Pedro, quicker) —

  Oh, Julia! (this curst vessel pitches so) —

  Belovéd Julia, hear me still beseeching!”

  (Here he grew inarticulate with retching.)

  XXI

  He felt that chilling heaviness of heart,

  Or rather stomach, which, alas! attends,

  Beyond the best apothecary’s art,

  The loss of love, the treachery of friends,

  Or death of those we dote on, when a part

  Of us dies with them as each fond hope ends:

  No doubt he would have been much more pathetic,

  But the sea acted as a strong emetic.

  XXII

  Love’s a capricious power: I’ve known it hold

  Out through a fever caused by its own heat,

  But be much puzzled by a cough and cold,

  And find a quincy very hard to treat;

  Against all noble maladies he’s bold,

  But vulgar illnesses don’t like to meet,

  Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh,

  Nor inflammations redden his blind eye.

  XXIII

  But worst of all is nausea, or a pain

  About the lower region of the bowels;

  Love, who heroically breathes a vein,

  Shrinks from the application of hot towels,

  And purgatives are dangerous to his reign,

  Sea-sickness death: his love was perfect, how else

  Could Juan’s passion, while the billows roar,

  Resist his stomach, ne’er at sea before?

  XXIV

  The ship, call’d the most holy “Trinidada,”

  Was steering duly for the port Leghorn;

  For there the Spanish family Moncada

  Were settled long ere Juan’s sire was born:

  They were relations, and for them he had a

  Letter of introduction, which the morn

  Of his departure had been sent him by

  His Spanish friends for those in Italy.

  XXV

  His suite consisted of three serva
nts and

  A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo,

  Who several languages did understand,

  But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow,

  And rocking in his hammock, long’d for land,

  His headache being increased by every billow;

  And the waves oozing through the port-hole made

  His berth a little damp, and him afraid.

  XXVI

  ‘T was not without some reason, for the wind

  Increased at night, until it blew a gale;

  And though ‘t was not much to a naval mind,

  Some landsmen would have look’d a little pale,

  For sailors are, in fact, a different kind:

  At sunset they began to take in sail,

  For the sky show’d it would come on to blow,

  And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so.

  XXVII

  At one o’clock the wind with sudden shift

  Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea,

  Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift,

  Started the stern-post, also shatter’d the

  Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could lift

  Herself from out her present jeopardy,

  The rudder tore away: ‘t was time to sound

  The pumps, and there were four feet water found.

  XXVIII

  One gang of people instantly was put

  Upon the pumps and the remainder set

  To get up part of the cargo, and what not;

  But they could not come at the leak as yet;

  At last they did get at it really, but

  Still their salvation was an even bet:

  The water rush’d through in a way quite puzzling,

  While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslin,

  XXIX

  Into the opening; but all such ingredients

  Would have been vain, and they must have gone down,

  Despite of all their efforts and expedients,

  But for the pumps: I’m glad to make them known

  To all the brother tars who may have need hence,

  For fifty tons of water were upthrown

  By them per hour, and they had all been undone,

  But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London.

  XXX

  As day advanced the weather seem’d to abate,

  And then the leak they reckon’d to reduce,

  And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet

  Kept two hand and one chain-pump still in use.

  The wind blew fresh again: as it grew late

  A squall came on, and while some guns broke loose,

  A gust — which all descriptive power transcends —

  Laid with one blast the ship on her beam ends.

  XXXI

  There she lay motionless, and seem’d upset;

  The water left the hold, and wash’d the decks,

  And made a scene men do not soon forget;

  For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks,

  Or any other thing that brings regret,

  Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks:

  Thus drownings are much talk’d of by the divers,

  And swimmers, who may chance to be survivors.

  XXXII

  Immediately the masts were cut away,

  Both main and mizen; first the mizen went,

  The main-mast follow’d: but the ship still lay

  Like a mere log, and baffled our intent.

  Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they

  Eased her at last (although we never meant

  To part with all till every hope was blighted),

  And then with violence the old ship righted.

  XXXIII

  It may be easily supposed, while this

  Was going on, some people were unquiet,

  That passengers would find it much amiss

  To lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet;

  That even the able seaman, deeming his

  Days nearly o’er, might be disposed to riot,

  As upon such occasions tars will ask

  For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask.

  XXXIV

  There’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.

  XXXV

  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.

  XXXVI

  “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.

  XXXVII

  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.

  XXXVIII

  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.

  XXXIX

  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.

  XL

  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.

  XLI

  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 s
olid 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.

  XLII

  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.

  XLIII

  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.

  XLIV

  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.

  XLV

  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.

  XLVI

  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.

  XLVII

  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;

  Six 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 —