*
A tear, sweet halcyons, to Thetis dear.
Weep, holy birds, you halcyons, a tear!
Myrto, the young Tarentine, is no more!
A ship bore her to Casmarina’s shore:
there, songs and flutes, leading the wedding band,
were meant to bring her to her lover’s hand.
A watchful key was, for the journey, made,
to lock the chest in which her gown was laid,
with golden bracelets for her arms to bear
and essences distilled to scent her hair.
But at the prow, alone, calling the stars,
a sudden gust that shook the sails and spars,
envelops her; caught far from company,
she screams, she falls, she struggles in the sea.
She struggles in the sea, the youthful bride!
Her lovely body rolls beneath the tide.
Thetis, in tears, within a cave takes care
to hide it from the monsters lurking there.
Soon lovely Nereids at her behest,
raising it from its humid place of rest,
bring it ashore and in this tomb depose
the body gently where the West Wind blows;
then calling with great cries the sisterhood
and nymphs from springs and mountains and the wood,
all, beating breasts and trailing a long crowd,
repeat their cries, alas, around her shroud.
“Alas! None lead you to your lover’s side,
you have not dressed again to be a bride.
Gold has not wound your arms for you to wear.
Sweet perfumes have not flowed upon your hair.”