The Works of Lord Byron Volume VI Part 22

XCIII.

Our shipwrecked seamen thought it a good omen-- It is as well to think so, now and then; 'T was an old custom of the Greek and Roman, And may become of great advantage when Folks are discouraged; and most surely no men Had greater need to nerve themselves again Than these, and so this rainbow looked like Hope-- Quite a celestial Kaleidoscope.

XCIV.

About this time a beautiful white bird, Webfooted, not unlike a dove in size And plumage (probably it might have erred Upon its course), pa.s.sed oft before their eyes, And tried to perch, although it saw and heard The men within the boat, and in this guise It came and went, and fluttered round them till Night fell:--this seemed a better omen still.[139]

XCV.

But in this case I also must remark, 'T was well this bird of promise did not perch, Because the tackle of our shattered 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,[140]

And all mistook about the latter once.

XCVII.

As morning broke, the light wind died away, When he who had the watch sung out and swore, If 't was not land that rose with the Sun's ray, He wished that land he never might see more;[141]

And the rest rubbed their eyes and saw a bay, Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for sh.o.r.e; For sh.o.r.e it was, and gradually grew Distinct, and high, and palpable to view.

XCVIII.

And then of these some part burst into tears, And others, looking with a stupid stare,[142]

Could not yet separate their hopes from fears, And seemed as if they had no further care; While a few prayed--(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,[143]

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.

C.

The land appeared a high and rocky coast, And higher grew the mountains as they drew, Set by a current, toward it: they were lost In various conjectures, for none knew To what part of the earth they had been tost, So changeable had been the winds that blew; Some thought it was Mount aetna, 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 followed them, and dashed The spray into their faces as they splashed.

CII.

Famine--despair--cold--thirst and heat, had done Their work on them by turns, and thinned them to Such things a mother had not known her son Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew;[144]

By night chilled, by day scorched, thus one by one They perished, until withered to these few, But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter, In washing down Pedrillo with salt water.

CII.

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 smoothed the air, And fell upon their glazed eyes like a screen From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare-- Lovely seemed any object that should sweep Away the vast--salt--dread--eternal Deep.

CIV.

The sh.o.r.e looked 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 sh.o.r.e,--and overset her.[145]

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 turned the art to some account: A better swimmer you could scarce see ever, He could, perhaps, have pa.s.sed the h.e.l.lespont, As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided) Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did.[146]

CVI.

So here, though faint, emaciated, and stark, He buoyed 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 n.o.body arrived on sh.o.r.e but him.

CVII.

Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar, Which, providentially for him, was washed Just as his feeble arms could strike no more, And the hard wave o'erwhelmed him as 't was dashed Within his grasp; he clung to it, and sore The waters beat while he thereto was lashed; At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he Rolled 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 looked for those Who long had been his mates upon the sea; But none of them appeared to share his woes, Save one, a corpse, from out the famished 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 pa.s.sed: He fell upon his side, and his stretched hand Drooped dripping on the oar (their jury-mast), And, like a withered lily, on the land His slender frame and pallid aspect lay, As fair a thing as e'er was formed of clay.

CXI.

How long in his damp trance young Juan lay[147]

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 pa.s.sed away He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb, And tingling vein, seemed throbbing back to life, For Death, though vanquished, still retired with strife.

CXII.

His eyes he opened, 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 wished 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 small mouth Seemed almost prying into his for breath; And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth Recalled 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 poured, 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, Pillowed his death-like forehead; then she wrung His dewy curls, long drenched by every storm; And watched 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 roofed them, which the sun Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er She was, appeared distinct, and tall, and fair.

CXVI.