The shore look'd 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 shore,- and overset her.
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 turn'd the art to some account:
A better swimmer you could scarce see ever, He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont, As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided)
Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did.
So here, though faint, emaciated, and stark, He buoy'd 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 nobody arrived on shore but him.
Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar, Which, providentially for him, was wash'd Just as his feeble arms could strike no more, And the hard wave o'erwhelm'd him as 't was dash'd Within his grasp; he clung to it, and sore The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd;
At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he Roll'd on the beach, half-senseless, from the sea:
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.
With slow and staggering effort he arose, But sunk again upon his bleeding knee And quivering hand; and then he look'd for those Who long had been his mates upon the sea;
But none of them appear'd to share his woes, Save one, a corpse, from out the famish'd three, Who died two days before, and now had found An unknown barren beach for burial ground.
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 pass'd:
He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd hand Droop'd dripping on the oar (their jurymast), And, like a wither'd lily, on the land His slender frame and pallid aspect lay, As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay.
How long in his damp trance young Juan lay 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 pass'd away He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb, And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life, For Death, though vanquish'd, still retired with strife.
His eyes he open'd, 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 wish'd 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.
'T was bending dose o'er his, and the small mouth Seem'd almost prying into his for breath;
And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth Recall'd 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.
Then was the cordial pour'd, 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, Pillow'd his death-like forehead; then she wrung His dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm;
And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew A sigh from his heaved bosom- and hers, too.
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 roof'd them, which the sun Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er She was, appear'd distinct, and tall, and fair.
Her brow was overhung with coins of gold, That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair-Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roll'd In braids behind; and though her stature were Even of the highest for a female mould, They nearly reach'd her heel; and in her air There was a something which bespoke command, As one who was a lady in the land.
Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyes Were black as death, their lashes the same hue, Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies Deepest attraction; for when to the view Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies, Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew;
'T is as the snake late coil'd, who pours his length, And hurls at once his venom and his strength.
Her brow was white and low, her cheek's pure dye Like twilight rosy still with the set sun;
Short upper lip- sweet lips! that make us sigh Ever to have seen such; for she was one Fit for the model of a statuary (A race of mere impostors, when all 's done-I 've seen much finer women, ripe and real, Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal).
I 'll tell you why I say so, for 't is just One should not rail without a decent cause:
There was an Irish lady, to whose bust I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was A frequent model; and if e'er she must Yield to stern Time and Nature's wrinkling laws, They will destroy a face which mortal thought Ne'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel wrought.
And such was she, the lady of the cave:
Her dress was very different from the Spanish, Simpler, and yet of colours not so grave;
For, as you know, the Spanish women banish Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave Around them (what I hope will never vanish)
The basquina and the mantilla, they Seem at the same time mystical and gay.
But with our damsel this was not the case:
Her dress was many-colour'd, finely spun;
