XLII. Again the weather threaten'd,-again blew All this, the most were patient, and some bold, At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are Like human beings during civil war. XLIII. Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea, That made his eyelids as a woman's be, But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children, N XLIV. The ship was evidently settling now Fast by the head; and, all distinction gone, Who told him to be damn'd-in his confusion. XLV. Some lash'd them in their hammocks, some put on 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, 'Twas 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— XLVIII. The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had 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. XLIX. 'Twas twilight, for the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters; like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one who hates us, so the night was shown, And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale, And hopeless eyes, which o'er the deep alone Gazed dim and desolate; twelve days had Fear Been their familiar, and now Death was here. L. 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, LI. 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. |