Of parents, whilst a child, I was bereft,
To the wide world an helplefs orphan left:
My brother in a ftrumpet's vile embrace
Lavish'd a large estate to buy difgrace,
And doom'd to traffick on the main is toft,
Winning with danger what with shame he oft,
And vows revenge on me, who dar'd to blame
His conduct, and was careful of his fame:
And then (as if the woes I bore befide
Were yet too light) my little daughter dy'd.
But after all these pangs of forrow past,
A worse came on, for Phaon came at laft!
No gems, nor rich embroider'd filks, I wear;
No more in artfu! curls I comb my hair;
No golden threads the wavy locks inwreath,
Nor Syrian oils diffufive odours breathe :
Why should I put
Now he, the darling of my foul, is gone?
Soft is my breast, and keen the killing dart,
And he who gave the wound deferves my heart;
My fate is fix'd, for sure the fates decrced
That he fhould wound, and Sappho's bofom bleed.
By the fmooth blandishments of verse betray'd,
In vain I call my reason to my aid;
The Mufe is faithlefs to the fair at beft,
But fatal in a love-fick lady's breaft.
Yet is it ftrange to fweet a youth fhould dart Flames fo refiftlefs to a woman's heart?
Him had Aurora feen, he foon had feiz'd
Her foul, and Cephalus no more had pleas'd:
Chafte Cynthia, did fhe once behold his charms,
For Phaon's would forfake Endymion's arms;
Venus would bear him to her bower above,
But there the dreads a rival in his love.
O fair perfection thou, nor youth, nor boy,
Fix'd in the bright meridian point for joy!
Come, on my panting breast thy head recline,
Thy love I afk not, only fuffer mine:
While this I ask (but ask I fear in vain)
See how my falling tears the letter ftain.
At least, why would you not vouchsafe to fhew
A kind regret, and fay, " My dear, adieu!”
Nor parting kifs I gave, nor tender tear,
My ruin flew on swifter wings than fear :
My wrongs, too fafely treafur'd in my mind,
Are all the pledges Phaon left behind;
Nor could I make my last defire to thee,
Sometimes to caft a pitying thought on me.
But, gods! when first the killing news I heard,
What pale amazement in my looks appear'd!
A while o'erwhelm'd with unexpected woe,
My tongue forbore to speak, my eyes to flow.
But when my fenfe was waken'd to despair,
I beat my tender breaft, and tore my hair :
As a diftracted mother weeps forlorn,
When to the grave her fondling babe is borne.
Meanwhile my cruel brother, for relief,
With fcorn infults me, and derides my grief:
Poor foul! he cries, I doubt the grows fincere;
Her daughter is return'd to life I fear.
Mindlefs of fame, I to the world reveal
The love fo long I labour'd to conceal. Thou, thou art fame, and all the world, to me; All day I dote, and dream all night of thee e Though Phaon fly to regions far remote, By Sleep his image to my bed is brought : Around my neck thy fond embraces twine, Anon I think my arms incircle thine : Then the warm wishes of my foul I fpeak, Which from my tongue in dying murmurs break: Heavens with thy balmy lips my lips are preft: And then! ah then !---I blufh to write the rest. Thus in my dreams the bright ideas play And gild the glowing scenes of fancy gay : With life alone my lingering love must end, On thee my love, my life, my all depend.
But at the dawning day my pleasures fleet,
And I (too foon !) perceive the dear deceit :
In caves and groves I feek to calm my grief;
"The caves and groves afford me no relief
Frantic I rove, diforder'd with despair,
And to the winds unbind my fcatter'd hair.
I find the Shades, which to our joys were kind,
But my falfe Phaon there no more I find :
With him the caves were cool, the grove was green,
But now his abfence withers all the fcene :
There weeping, I the graffy couch furvey,
Where fide by fide we once together lay:
I fall where thy forfaken print appears,
And the kind turf imbibes my flowing tears.
The birds and trees to grief affiftance bring,
Thefe drop their leaves, and they forbear to fing:
Poor Philomel, of all the quire, alone
For mangled Itys warbles out her moan;
Her moan for him trills fweetly through the grove,
While Sappho fings of ill-requited love.
To this dear folitude the Naiads bring
Their fruitful urns, to form a filver fpring :
The trees that on the fhady margin grow
Are green above, the banks are green below :
Here while by forrow lull'd afleep I lay,
Thus faid the guardian nymph, or feem'd to fay
Fly, Sappho, fly; to cure this deep despair,
To the Leucadian rock in hafte repair;
High on whose hoary top an awful fane,
To Phœbus rear'd, furveys the fubject main.
This defperate cure, of old, Deucalion try'd,
For love to fury wrought by Pyrrha's pride;
Into the waves, as holy rites require,
Headlong he leap'd, and quench'd his hopeless fire:
Her frozen breast a fudden flame fubdued,
And she who fled the youth, the youth pursued.
Like him, to give thy raging paffion ease,
Precipitate thyself into the feas.
This faid, the disappear'd. I deadly wan
Rofe up, and gushing tears unbounded ran :
I fly, ye nymphs, I fly; though fear affail,
The woman, yet the lover must prevail.
In death what terrors can deferve my care?
The pangs of death are gentler than despair.
Ye winds, and Cupid thou, to meet my fall,
Your downy pinions spread! my weight is fmall.
Thus refcued, to the god of verfe I'll bow,
Hang up my lute, and thus infcribe my vow :
To Phoebus grateful Sappho gave this lute;
The gift did both the god and giver fuit.
But, Phaon, why fhould I this toil endure,
When thy return would foon complete the cure?
Thy beauty, and its balmy power, would be
A Phoebus and Leucadian rock to me.
O harder than the rock to which I go,
And deafer than the waves that war below!
Think yet, oh think! fhall future ages tell
That I to Phaon's fcorn a victim fell?
Or hadft thou rather fee this tender breast
Bruis'd on the clift, than clofe to Phaon's preft?
This breaft, which, fill'd with bright poetic file,
You made me once believe you did admire?
O could it now fupply me with address
To plead my cause, and court thee with fuccefs!
But mighty woes my genius quite control,
And damp the rifing vigour of my foul:
No more, ye Lesbian nymphs, defire a fong,
Mute is my voice, my lute is all unftrung.
My Phaon's fled, who made my fancy shine,
(Ah! yet I fcarce forbear to call him---mine.)
Phaon is fled but bring the youth again,
Infpiring ardors will revive my vein.
But why, alas! this unavailing prayer?
Vain are my vows, and fleet with common air:
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