XXXV.

Cantabrian maidens, sisters of the oar, Mourn, mourn for her your Cynosure and pride. Her star-like eye shall guide your chase no more, Your glory fled from earth when Blanca died! In vain your barks shall o’er the billows ride; Her beauty gave the sunshine most ye miss. So graceful ne’er again your fleet shall glide; Nor waves your prows so joyously shall kiss. For Nereus ne’er surveyed a daughter fair as this!