The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  A hermit’s, with a haram for a grot.

  ‘Oh Love! in such a wilderness as this,

  Where transport and security entwine,

  Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss,

  And here thou art a god indeed divine.’

  The bard I quote from does not sing amiss,

  With the exception of the second line,

  For that same twining ‘transport and security’

  Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity.

  The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals

  To the good sense and senses of mankind,

  The very thing which every body feels,

  As all have found on trial, or may find,

  That no one likes to be disturb’d at meals

  Or love. – I won’t say more about ‘entwined’

  Or ‘transport’, as we knew all that before,

  But beg ‘Security’ will bolt the door.

  Young Juan wander’d by the glassy brooks

  Thinking unutterable things; he threw

  Himself at length within the leafy nooks

  Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew;

  There poets find materials for their books,

  And every now and then we read them through,

  So that their plan and prosody are eligible,

  Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible.

  He, Juan, (and not Wordsworth) so pursued

  His self-communion with his own high soul,

  Until his mighty heart, in its great mood,

  Had mitigated part, though not the whole

  Of its disease; he did the best he could

  With things not very subject to control,

  And turn’d, without perceiving his condition,

  Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician.

  He thought about himself, and the whole earth,

  Of man the wonderful, and of the stars,

  And how the deuce they ever could have birth;

  And then he thought of earthquakes, and of wars,

  How many miles the moon might have in girth,

  Of air-balloons, and of the many bars

  To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies;

  And then he thought of Donna Julia’s eyes.

  In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern

  Longings sublime, and aspirations high,

  Which some are born with, but the most part learn

  To plague themselves withal, they know not why:

  ’Twas strange that one so young should thus concern

  His brain about the action of the sky;

  If you think ’twas philosophy that this did,

  I can’t help thinking puberty assisted.

  He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers,

  And heard a voice in all the winds; and then

  He thought of wood nymphs and immortal bowers,

  And how the goddesses came down to men:

  He miss’d the pathway, he forgot the hours,

  And when he look’d upon his watch again,

  He found how much old Time had been a winner –

  He also found that he had lost his dinner.

  Sometimes he turn’d to gaze upon his book,

  Boscan, or Garcilasso; – by the wind

  Even as the page is rustled while we look,

  So by the poesy of his own mind

  Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook,

  As if ’twere one whereon magicians bind

  Their spells, and give them to the passing gale,

  According to some good old woman’s tale.

  Thus would he while his lonely hours away

  Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted;

  Nor glowing reverie, nor poet’s lay,

  Could yield his spirit that for which it panted,

  A bosom whereon he his head might lay,

  And hear the heart beat with the love it granted,

  With – several other things, which I forget,

  Or which, at least, I need not mention yet.

  from Canto II [The Shipwreck]

  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.

  Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell,

  Then shriek’d the timid, and stood still the brave,

  Then some leap’d overboard with dreadful yell,

  As eager to anticipate their grave;

  And the sea yawn’d around her like a hell,

  And down she suck’d with her the whirling wave,

  Like one who grapples with his enemy,

  And strives to strangle him before he die.

  And first one universal shriek there rush’d,

  Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash

  Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush’d,

  Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash

  Of billows; but at intervals there gush’d,

  Accompanied with a convulsive splash,

  A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry

  Of some strong swimmer in his agony.

  The boats, as stated, had got off before,

  And in them crowded several of the crew;

  And yet their present hope was hardly more

  Than what it had been, for so strong it blew

  There was slight chance of reaching any shore;

  And then they were too many, though so few –

  Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat,

  Were counted in them when they got afloat.

  All the rest perish’d; near two hundred souls

  Had left their bodies; and, what’s worse, alas!

  When over Catholics the ocean rolls,

  They must wait several weeks before a mass

  Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals,

  Because, till people know what’s come to pass,

  They won’t lay out their money on the dead –

  It costs three francs for every mass that’s said.

  Juan got into the long-boat, and there

  Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place;

  It seem’d as if they had exchanged their care,

  For Juan wore the magisterial face

  Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo’s pair

  Of eyes were crying for their owner’s case:

  Battista, though, (a name call’d shortly Tita)

  Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita.

  Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save,

  But the same cause, conducive to his loss,

  Left him so drunk, he jump’d into the wave

  As o’er the cutter’s edge he tried to cross,

  And so he found a wine-and-watery grave;

  They could not rescue him although so close,

  Because the sea ran higher every minute,

  And for the boat – the crew kept crowding in it.

  A small old spaniel, – which had been Don Jóse’s,

  His father’s, whom he loved, as ye may think,

  For on such things the memory reposes

  With tenderness, – stood howling on the brink,

  Knowing, (dogs have such intellectual noses!)

  No doubt, the vessel was about to sink;

  And Juan caught him up, and ere he stepp’d

  Off, threw him in, then after him he leap’d.

  (…)

  ’Tis thus with people in an open boat,

  They live upon the love of life, and bear

  More than can be believed, or even thought,

  And stand like rocks the tempest’s wear and tear;
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  And hardship still has been the sailor’s lot,

  Since Noah’s ark went cruising here and there;

  She had a curious crew as well as cargo,

  Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo.

  But man is a carnivorous production,

  And must have meals, at least one meal a day;

  He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction,

  But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey,

  Although his anatomical construction

  Bears vegetables in a grumbling way,

  Your labouring people think beyond all question,

  Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion.

  And thus it was with this our hapless crew,

  For on the third day there came on a calm,

  And though at first their strength it might renew,

  And lying on their weariness like balm,

  Lull’d them like turtles sleeping on the blue

  Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm,

  And fell all ravenously on their provision,

  Instead of hoarding it with due precision.

  The consequence was easily foreseen –

  They ate up all they had, and drank their wine,

  In spite of all remonstrances, and then

  On what, in fact, next day were they to dine?

  They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men!

  And carry them to shore; these hopes were fine,

  But as they had but one oar, and that brittle,

  It would have been more wise to save their victual.

  The fourth day came, but not a breath of air,

  And Ocean slumber’d like an unwean’d child:

  The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there,

  The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild –

  With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair)

  What could they do? and hunger’s rage grew wild:

  So Juan’s spaniel, spite of his entreating,

  Was kill’d, and portion’d out for present eating.

  On the sixth day they fed upon his hide,

  And Juan, who had still refused, because

  The creature was his father’s dog that died,

  Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws,

  With some remorse received (though first denied)

  As a great favour one of the fore-paws,

  Which he divided with Pedrillo, who

  Devour’d it, longing for the other too.

  The seventh day, and no wind – the burning sun

  Blister’d and scorch’d, and, stagnant on the sea,

  They lay like carcases; and hope was none,

  Save in the breeze that came not; savagely

  They glared upon each other – all was done,

  Water, and wine, and food, – and you might see

  The longings of the cannibal arise

  (Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes.

  At length one whisper’d his companion, who

  Whisper’d another, and thus it went round,

  And then into a hoarser murmur grew,

  An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound,

  And when his comrade’s thought each sufferer knew,

  ’Twas but his own, suppress’d till now, he found:

  And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood,

  And who should die to be his fellow’s food.

  But ere they came to this, they that day shared

  Some leathern caps, and what remain’d of shoes;

  And then they look’d around them, and despair’d,

  And none to be the sacrifice would choose;

  At length the lots were torn up, and prepared,

  But of materials that much shock the Muse –

  Having no paper, for the want of better,

  They took by force from Juan Julia’s letter.

  The lots were made, and mark’d, and mix’d, and handed,

  In silent horror, and their distribution

  Lull’d even the savage hunger which demanded,

  Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution;

  None in particular had sought or plann’d it,

  ’Twas nature gnaw’d them to this resolution,

  By which none were permitted to be neuter –

  And the lot fell on Juan’s luckless tutor.

  He but requested to be bled to death:

  The surgeon had his instruments, and bled

  Pedrillo, and so gently ebb’d his breath,

  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.

  The surgeon, as there was no other fee,

  Had his first choice of morsels for his pains;

  But being thirstiest at the moment, he

  Preferr’d a draught from the fast-flowing veins:

  Part was divided, part thrown in the sea,

  And such things as the entrails and the brains

  Regaled two sharks, who follow’d o’er the billow –

  The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo.

  The sailors ate him, all save three or four,

  Who were not quite so fond of animal food;

  To these were added Juan, who, before

  Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could

  Feel now his appetite increased much more;

  ’Twas not to be expected that he should,

  Even in extremity of their disaster,

  Dine with them on his pastor and his master.

  ’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 hyaena laughter, died despairing.

  JOHN KEATS The Eve of St. Agnes

  St. Agnes’ Eve – Ah, bitter chill it was!

  The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;

  The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass,

  And silent was the flock in woolly fold;

  Numb were the Beadsman’s fingers, while he told

  His rosary, and while his frosted breath,