Alcyöne and Ceÿx

Woman and Man into Birds

 

Ceÿx drowns, and his corpse floats back to his homeland. His wife, Alcyöne, tries to reach his lifeless body.

 

Hither she sprung, and, wond'rous that she could!

She flew; the light air winnowing with her wings

New-sprung; a mournful bird she skimm'd along

The water's surface. As she flies, her beak

Slender and small, a creaking noise sends forth,

Of mournful sound, and full of sad complaint.

Soon as the silent bloodless corse she reach'd,

Around his dear-lov'd limbs her wings she clasp'd,

And gave cold kisses with her horny bill.

If Ceÿx felt them, or his head was rais'd

To meet her by the waves, th' unlearned doubt.

But sure he felt them. Both at length, the gods

Commisserating, chang'd to feather'd birds.

The same their love remains, and subject still

To the same fates; and in the plumag'd pair

The nuptial bond is sacred; join'd in one

Parents they soon become; and Halcyon sits

Sev'n peaceful days 'mid winter's keenest rule

Upon her floating nest. Safe then the main:

For Æölus with watchful care the winds

Guards, and prevents their egress; and the seas

Smooths for the offspring, with a grandsire's care.