You hardly could perceive when he was dead. He died as born, a catholic in faith, Like most in the belief in which they're bred, And first a little crucifix he kiss'd, And then held out his jugular and wrist. LXXVII. The surgeon, as there was no other fee, Preferr'd a draught from the fast-flowing veins: And such things as the entrails and the brains Regaled two sharks, who follow'd o'er the billowThe sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo. LXXVIII. The sailors ate him, all save three or four, Dine with them on his pastor and his master. LXXIX. 'Twas better that he did not; for, in fact, The consequence was awful in the extreme: For they, who were most ravenous in the act, Went raging mad-Lord! how they did blaspheme! And foam and roll, with strange convulsions rack'd, Drinking salt-water like a mountain-stream, Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing, And, with hyæna laughter, died dispairing. LXXX. Their numbers were much thinn'd by this infliction, And all the rest were thin enough, heaven knows; And some of them had lost their recollection, Happier than they who still perceived their woes; But others ponder'd on a new dissection, As if not warn'd sufficiently by those Who had already perish'd, suffering madly, For having used their appetite so sadly. LXXXI. And next they thought upon the master's mate, There were some other reasons; the first was, And that which chiefly proved his saving clause, Was a small present made to him at Cadiz, By general subscription of the ladies. Of LXXXII. poor Pedrillo something still remain'd, LXXXIII. And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be, To eat the head of his arch-enemy The moment after he politely ends His tale; if foes be food in hell, at sea 'Tis surely fair to dine upon our friends, When shipwreck's short allowance grows too scanty, Without being much more horrible than Dante. LXXXIV. And the same night there fell a shower of rain, Or with a famish'd boat's-crew had your birth, Or in the desert heard the camel's bell, You'd wish yourself where Truth is-in a well. LXXXV. It pour'd down torrents, but they were no richer Might not have thought the scanty draught so sweet As a full pot of porter, to their thinking They ne'er till now had known the joys of drinking. LXXXVI. And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack, A drop of dew, when every drop had seem'd LXXXVII. There were two fathers in this ghastly crew, And with them their two sons, of whom the one Was more robust and hardy to the view, But he died early; and when he was gone His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw One glance on him and said, "Heaven's will be done! I can do nothing," and he saw him thrown Into the deep without a tear or groan. LXXXVIII. The other father had a weaklier child, LXXXIX. And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised And when the wish'd-for shower at length was come, And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed, Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to roam, He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain XC. The boy expired-the father held the clay, He watch'd it wistfully, until away 'Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas cast; Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shivering, And gave no signs of life, save his limbs quivering. XCI. Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark sea, Resting its bright base on the quivering blue; And all within its arch appear'd to be Clearer than that without, and its wide hue Wax'd broad and waving, like a banner free, Then changed like to a bow that's bent, and then Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd men. XCII. It changed, of course; a heavenly chameleon, (For sometimes we must box without the muffle.) XCIII. Our shipwreck'd seamen thought it a good omen- |