Classic Poem

In the pallid soughing of the dawn
the moon extinguishes her crystal sphere,
and from the sea the fresh and sounding breeze
wanders among the pines along the shore.

Here in a fatal hour Mirtilo died
of love; his sheep are crying and the spring
is crying and the flowers, with rustic incense,
whose fumes intoxicate, are paying tribute.

Yonder stands the pyre; and round about
the shepherds crowned with cypress and verbena
begin to tread a grave and grievous measure;

the wood with murmurous suavity complains,
and there, among Mirtilo's flowers, lies
the sweet oat-grass as well, that scents of honey.

But in the east the morning scarcely smiles
when to the place the flocking shepherds throng;
they join their voices in the dolesome chant,
and the sweet-smelling violets unfold.

Now the measures turn in living garlands;
now they quicken to an ardent rhythm
reiterated in the nearby stream
by laughing dryads and lascivious fauns.

Phoebus darts his diamond javelin;
the dance impetuous wheels; the shepherds loose
from their sore-burdened breasts a frenzied cry

of love, that makes the fiery welkin ring.
At that instant innocent Mirtilo
lacked but a kiss to bring him back to life.

With the tumult of the open lips'
convulsive sobs the sudden clamour mingles,
and down into the red mouths is received
the burning weeping of the flowing eyes.

Homage to Mirtilo! How could his shades
remain indifferent to such a quire?
Wafted by love and in a bark of gold
far from his native songs his spirit flies.

The pure milk froths in newly fashioned bowls,
and from their bosomed plenitude they pour
its glossy whiteness, torrent after torrent.

On the aromatic funeral pile
the fire laps at last the gloomy pyre,
and in the sapphire calm the sun ascends.

The fire waxes, sets its angry teeth
into the boughs, whose spices cloy the wind;
and the dance dies, when the last flame breathes
on the last thistle its expiring breath.

Black and red the earthen urn in which
the shepherds instantly receive the ashes,
and they commit to a rude monument
with pious care the piteous remains.

Mirtilo is asleep; the shadowy grove
that pours on thy deserted sepulchre
its tranquil and ineffable poetry

will not forget thy grievous destiny,
nor the transient elegy of thy love,
nor with death thy nuptials everlasting.