And,—sight to wonder at for hours,— The man,—to Phillip has he sat?— With butterfly-like velvet hat; One dame his big bassoon conveys, On one his gentle arm he lays; They stop, and look, and something say, And to ‘España’ ask the way. But while I speak, and point them on, Alas! my dearer friends are gone; The dark-eyed maiden and the ass Have had the time the bridge to pass. Vainly, beyond it far descried, Adieu, and peace with you abide, Grey donkey, and your beauteous guide. The pictures come, the pictures go, Quick, quick, _currente calamo_. They praised the rhymes, but still would persevere The eclogue of the mountain peaks to hear, Eclogue that never was; and then awhile, Of France, and Frenchmen, and our native isle, They talked; pre-insular above the rest, My friend his ardent politics expressed; France was behind us all, he saw in France Worse retrogression, and the least advance. Her revolutions had but thrown her back. Powerful just now, but wholly off the track; They in religion were, as I had seen, About where we in Chaucer’s time had been; In Chaucer’s time, and yet their Wickliffe where? Something they’d kept—the worst part—of Voltaire. Strong for Old England, was New England too; The clergyman was neutral in his view, And I, for France with more than I could do, Though sound, my thesis did not long maintain. The contemplation of the nightly main, The vaulted heavens above, and under these, The black ship working through the dusky seas, Deserting, to our narrow berths we crept; Sound slumbered there, the watch while others kept. The second officer, who kept the watch, A young man, fair of feature, partly Scotch And partly Irish in his voice and way, Joined us the evening of the following day, And of our stories when he heard us tell, Offered to give a narrative as well. _THE MATE’S STORY._