Poor Canacë lies buried in this tomb,
A child whose seventh winter scarce had come.
O shame, O monstrous crime! Yet, stranger, hear;
'Tis not for life cut short we shed this tear.
Than death itself more cruel was death's guise,
The cancerous growth that spread before our eyes
And did at last so eat her lips away
That half-consumed upon the pyre they lay.
If 'twere decreed that death should come so soon,
Some other way the fell deed had been done.
But lest her plaintive cries the gods should reach
Fate closed the channel of her baby speech.