 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
138
SAPPHO to PHAON.
A LOVE-EPISTLE.
What, after all my Art, will you demand,
Before the whole is read, the Writer's Hand?
And cou'd you guess from whom this Letter came,
Before you saw it sign'd with Sappho's Name?
Don't wonder, since I'm form'd for Lyrics, why
The Strain is turn'd to plaintive Elegy;
I mourn my slighted Love; alas! my Lute,
And sprightly Odes, wou'd ill with Sorrow suit.
I'm scorch'd, I burn; like Fields of Corn o'Fire,
When Winds to fan the furious Blaze conspire:
To flaming Ætna Phaon's pleas'd to roam,
But Sappho feels a fiercer Flame at home.
Before the whole is read, the Writer's Hand?
And cou'd you guess from whom this Letter came,
Before you saw it sign'd with Sappho's Name?
Don't wonder, since I'm form'd for Lyrics, why
The Strain is turn'd to plaintive Elegy;
139
And sprightly Odes, wou'd ill with Sorrow suit.
I'm scorch'd, I burn; like Fields of Corn o'Fire,
When Winds to fan the furious Blaze conspire:
To flaming Ætna Phaon's pleas'd to roam,
But Sappho feels a fiercer Flame at home.
No more my Thoughts in even Numbers slow,
Verse best befits a Mind devoid of Woe;
No more I court the Nymphs I once carest,
But Phaon rules unrival'd in my Breast.
Fair is thy Face, thy Youth is fit for Joy;
A fatal Face to me, too cruel Boy!
Enslav'd to those enchanting Looks, that wear
The Blush of Bacchus, and Apollo's Air.
Assume the Garb of either God, in thee
We ev'ry Grace of either God may see:
Yet they confess'd the Pow'r of Female Charms,
In Daphne's Flight and Ariadne's Arms;
Tho' neither Nymph was fam'd for Wit, to move
With melting Airs the rigid Soul to Love.
To me the Muse vouchsafes celestial Fire,
And my soft Numbers glow with warm Desire;
Alcæus and my self alike she crown'd;
For Softness I, and he for Strength renown'd.
Beauty, 'tis true, penurious Fate denies,
But Wit my want of Beauty well supplies:
My Shape I own is short, but yet my Name
Is far diffus'd, and fills the Voice of Fame.
If I'm not fair, young Perseus did adore
The swarthy Graces of the Royal Moor:
The milk-white Doves with mottl'd Mates are join'd,
And the gay Parrot to the Turtle's kind.
But if you'll fly from Love's connubial Rites,
'Till one as charming as your self invites,
None of our Sex can ever bless your Bed;
Ne'er think of wooing, for you ne'er can wed.
Verse best befits a Mind devoid of Woe;
No more I court the Nymphs I once carest,
But Phaon rules unrival'd in my Breast.
Fair is thy Face, thy Youth is fit for Joy;
A fatal Face to me, too cruel Boy!
Enslav'd to those enchanting Looks, that wear
The Blush of Bacchus, and Apollo's Air.
Assume the Garb of either God, in thee
We ev'ry Grace of either God may see:
Yet they confess'd the Pow'r of Female Charms,
In Daphne's Flight and Ariadne's Arms;
140
With melting Airs the rigid Soul to Love.
To me the Muse vouchsafes celestial Fire,
And my soft Numbers glow with warm Desire;
Alcæus and my self alike she crown'd;
For Softness I, and he for Strength renown'd.
Beauty, 'tis true, penurious Fate denies,
But Wit my want of Beauty well supplies:
My Shape I own is short, but yet my Name
Is far diffus'd, and fills the Voice of Fame.
If I'm not fair, young Perseus did adore
The swarthy Graces of the Royal Moor:
The milk-white Doves with mottl'd Mates are join'd,
And the gay Parrot to the Turtle's kind.
But if you'll fly from Love's connubial Rites,
'Till one as charming as your self invites,
None of our Sex can ever bless your Bed;
Ne'er think of wooing, for you ne'er can wed.
141
Yet, when you read my Verse, you lik'd each Line,
And swore no Numbers were so sweet as mine;
I sang (that pleasing Image still is plain,
Such tender Things we Lovers long retain!)
And ever when the warbling Notes I rais'd,
You with fierce Kisses stifl'd what you prais'd.
Some winning Grace in ev'ry Act you found,
But in full Tides of Extasy were drown'd;
When murm'ring in the melting Joys of Love,
Round yours my curling Limbs began to move.
But now the bright Sicilian Maids adore
The Youth, who seem'd so fond of me before!
Send back, send back my Fugitive! For he
Will vow to you the Vows he made to me:
That smooth deceiving Tongue of his can charm
The coyest Ear, the roughest Pride disarm.
And swore no Numbers were so sweet as mine;
I sang (that pleasing Image still is plain,
Such tender Things we Lovers long retain!)
And ever when the warbling Notes I rais'd,
You with fierce Kisses stifl'd what you prais'd.
Some winning Grace in ev'ry Act you found,
But in full Tides of Extasy were drown'd;
When murm'ring in the melting Joys of Love,
Round yours my curling Limbs began to move.
But now the bright Sicilian Maids adore
The Youth, who seem'd so fond of me before!
Send back, send back my Fugitive! For he
Will vow to you the Vows he made to me:
That smooth deceiving Tongue of his can charm
The coyest Ear, the roughest Pride disarm.
Oh, aid thy Poetess, great Queen of Love,
Auspicious to my growing Passion prove!
Fortune was cruel to my tender Age,
And still pursues with unrelenting Rage.
Of Parents, whilst a Child, I was bereft,
To the wide World an helpless Orphan left:
My Brother in a Strumpet's vile Embrace
Lavish'd a large Estate to buy Disgrace;
And doom'd to Traffick on the Main is tost,
Winning with Danger what with Shame he lost;
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 beside
Were yet too light) my little Daughter dy'd:
But after all these Pangs of Sorrow past,
A worse came on, for Phaon came at last!
No Gems, nor rich embroider'd Silks I wear,
No more in artful Curls I comb my Hair;
No golden Threads the wavy Locks inwreath,
Nor Syrian Oils diffusive Odours breath:
Why shou'd I put such gay Allurements on,
Now he, the Darling of my Soul, is gone?
Soft is my Breast, and keen the killing Dart,
And he who gave the Wound, deserves my Heart;
My Fate is fix'd, for sure the Fates decreed
That he shou'd wound, and Sappho's Bosom bleed.
By the smooth Blandishments of Verse betray'd,
In vain I call my Reason to my Aid;
The Muse is faithless to the Fair at best,
But fatal in a Love-sick Lady's Breast.
Auspicious to my growing Passion prove!
142
And still pursues with unrelenting Rage.
Of Parents, whilst a Child, I was bereft,
To the wide World an helpless Orphan left:
My Brother in a Strumpet's vile Embrace
Lavish'd a large Estate to buy Disgrace;
And doom'd to Traffick on the Main is tost,
Winning with Danger what with Shame he lost;
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 beside
Were yet too light) my little Daughter dy'd:
But after all these Pangs of Sorrow past,
A worse came on, for Phaon came at last!
No Gems, nor rich embroider'd Silks I wear,
No more in artful Curls I comb my Hair;
No golden Threads the wavy Locks inwreath,
Nor Syrian Oils diffusive Odours breath:
Why shou'd I put such gay Allurements on,
Now he, the Darling of my Soul, is gone?
143
And he who gave the Wound, deserves my Heart;
My Fate is fix'd, for sure the Fates decreed
That he shou'd wound, and Sappho's Bosom bleed.
By the smooth Blandishments of Verse betray'd,
In vain I call my Reason to my Aid;
The Muse is faithless to the Fair at best,
But fatal in a Love-sick Lady's Breast.
Yet is it strange so sweet a Youth shou'd dart
Flames so resistless to a Woman's Heart?
Him had Aurora seen, he soon had seiz'd
Her Soul, and Cephalus no more had pleas'd:
Chaste Cynthia, did she once behold his Charms,
For Phaon's wou'd forsake Endymion's Arms:
Venus wou'd bear him to her Bow'r above;
But there she 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 ask not, only suffer mine:
While this I ask (but ask I fear in vain)
See how my falling Tears the Letter stain.
Flames so resistless to a Woman's Heart?
Him had Aurora seen, he soon had seiz'd
Her Soul, and Cephalus no more had pleas'd:
Chaste Cynthia, did she once behold his Charms,
For Phaon's wou'd forsake Endymion's Arms:
Venus wou'd bear him to her Bow'r above;
But there she dreads a Rival in his Love.
O fair Perfection thou, nor Youth, nor Boy;
Fix'd in the bright Meridian Point for Joy!
144
Thy Love I ask not, only suffer mine:
While this I ask (but ask I fear in vain)
See how my falling Tears the Letter stain.
At least, why wou'd you not vouchsafe to shew
A kind Regret, and fay, My Dear, adieu?
Nor parting Kiss I gave, nor tender Tear,
My Ruin flew on swifter Wings than Fear:
My Wrongs, too safely treasur'd in my Mind,
Are all the Pledges Phaon left behind:
Nor cou'd I make my last Desire to thee,
Sometimes to cast 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 Sense was waken'd to Despair,
I beat my tender Breast, and tore my Hair:
As a distracted Mother weeps forlorn,
When to the Grave her fondling Babe is born.
Mean while my cruel Brother, for Relief,
With Scorn insults me, and derides my Grief:
Poor Soul! he cries, I doubt she grows sincere;
Her Daughter is return'd to Life I fear.
Mindless of Fame, I to the World reveal
The Love so long I labour'd to conceal.
Thou, thou art Fame, and all the World to me;
All Day I doat, and dream all Night of thee:
Tho' 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 Soul I speak,
Which from my Tongue in dying Murmurs break:
Heav'ns! with thy balmy Lips my Lips are prest;
And then! ah then!—I blush to write the rest.
Thus in my Dreams the bright Ideas play,
And gild the glowing Scenes of Fancy gay:
With Life alone my ling'ring Love must end,
On thee my Love, my Life, my All depend.
A kind Regret, and fay, My Dear, adieu?
Nor parting Kiss I gave, nor tender Tear,
My Ruin flew on swifter Wings than Fear:
My Wrongs, too safely treasur'd in my Mind,
Are all the Pledges Phaon left behind:
Nor cou'd I make my last Desire to thee,
Sometimes to cast 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 Sense was waken'd to Despair,
I beat my tender Breast, and tore my Hair:
145
When to the Grave her fondling Babe is born.
Mean while my cruel Brother, for Relief,
With Scorn insults me, and derides my Grief:
Poor Soul! he cries, I doubt she grows sincere;
Her Daughter is return'd to Life I fear.
Mindless of Fame, I to the World reveal
The Love so long I labour'd to conceal.
Thou, thou art Fame, and all the World to me;
All Day I doat, and dream all Night of thee:
Tho' 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 Soul I speak,
Which from my Tongue in dying Murmurs break:
Heav'ns! with thy balmy Lips my Lips are prest;
And then! ah then!—I blush to write the rest.
Thus in my Dreams the bright Ideas play,
And gild the glowing Scenes of Fancy gay:
146
On thee my Love, my Life, my All depend.
But at the dawning Day my Pleasures fleet,
And I (too soon!) perceive the dear Deceit:
In Caves and Groves I seek to calm my Grief;
The Caves and Groves afford me no Relief.
Frantick I rove, disorder'd with Despair,
And to the Winds unbind my scatter'd Hair.
I find the Shades which to our Joys were kind,
But my false Phaon there no more I find:
With him the Caves were cool, the Grove was green,
But now his Absence withers all the Scene.
There weeping, I the grassy Couch survey,
Where side by side we once together lay:
I fall where thy forsaken Print appears,
And the kind Turf imbibes my flowing Tears.
The Birds and Trees to Grief Assistance bring,
These drop their Leaves, and they forbear to sing:
Poor Philomel of all the Quire, alone
For mangled Itys warbles out her Moan;
Her Moan for him trills sweetly thro' the Grove,
While Sappho sings of ill-requited Love.
And I (too soon!) perceive the dear Deceit:
In Caves and Groves I seek to calm my Grief;
The Caves and Groves afford me no Relief.
Frantick I rove, disorder'd with Despair,
And to the Winds unbind my scatter'd Hair.
I find the Shades which to our Joys were kind,
But my false Phaon there no more I find:
With him the Caves were cool, the Grove was green,
But now his Absence withers all the Scene.
There weeping, I the grassy Couch survey,
Where side by side we once together lay:
I fall where thy forsaken Print appears,
And the kind Turf imbibes my flowing Tears.
The Birds and Trees to Grief Assistance bring,
These drop their Leaves, and they forbear to sing:
147
For mangled Itys warbles out her Moan;
Her Moan for him trills sweetly thro' the Grove,
While Sappho sings of ill-requited Love.
To this dear Solitude the Naïds bring
Their fruitful Urns, to form a silver Spring:
The Trees that on the shady Margin grow,
Are green above, the Banks are green below:
Here while by Sorrow lull'd asleep I lay,
Thus said the Guardian Nymph, or seem'd to say:
Fly, Sappho, fly; to cure this deep Despair
To the Leucadian Rock in haste repair;
High on whose hoary Top an awful Fane
To Phœbus rear'd, surveys the subject Main.
This desp'rate 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 sudden Flame subdu'd,
And she who fled the Youth, the Youth pursu'd.
Like him, to give thy raging Passion ease,
Precipitate thy self into the Seas.
Their fruitful Urns, to form a silver Spring:
The Trees that on the shady Margin grow,
Are green above, the Banks are green below:
Here while by Sorrow lull'd asleep I lay,
Thus said the Guardian Nymph, or seem'd to say:
Fly, Sappho, fly; to cure this deep Despair
To the Leucadian Rock in haste repair;
High on whose hoary Top an awful Fane
To Phœbus rear'd, surveys the subject Main.
This desp'rate 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:
148
And she who fled the Youth, the Youth pursu'd.
Like him, to give thy raging Passion ease,
Precipitate thy self into the Seas.
This said, she disappear'd. I deadly wan
Rose up, and gushing Tears unbounded ran:
I fly, ye Nymphs, I fly; tho' Fear assail,
The Woman, yet the Lover must prevail.
In Death what Terrors can deserve 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 small.
Thus rescu'd, to the God of Verse I'll bow,
Hang up my Lute, and thus inscribe my Vow.
To Phœbus grateful Sappho gave this Lute;
The Gift did both the God and Giver suit.
Rose up, and gushing Tears unbounded ran:
I fly, ye Nymphs, I fly; tho' Fear assail,
The Woman, yet the Lover must prevail.
In Death what Terrors can deserve 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 small.
Thus rescu'd, to the God of Verse I'll bow,
Hang up my Lute, and thus inscribe my Vow.
To Phœbus grateful Sappho gave this Lute;
The Gift did both the God and Giver suit.
But, Phaon, why shou'd I this Toil endure,
When thy Return wou'd soon compleat the Cure?
Thy Beauty and its balmy Pow'r, wou'd be
A Phœbus, 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! shall future Ages tell
That I to Phaon's Scorn a Victim fell?
Or hadst thou rather see this tender Breast
Bruis'd on the Cliff, than close to Phaon's prest?
This Breast? which fill'd with bright Poetic Fire,
You made me once believe you did admire:
O cou'd it now supply me with Address
To plead my Cause, and court thee with Success!
But mighty Woes my Genius quite controul,
And damp the rising Vigour of my Soul:
No more, ye Lesbian Nymphs, desire a Song;
Mute is my Voice, my Lute is all unstrung.
My—Phaon's fled, who made my Fancy shine,
(Ah! yet I scarce forbear to call him—Mine.)
Phaon is fled! but bring the Youth again,
Inspiring Ardors will revive my Vein.
But why, alas! this unavailing Pray'r?
Vain are my Vows, and fleet with common Air:
My Vows the Winds disperse, and make their sport,
But ne'er will waft him to the Lesbian Port.
When thy Return wou'd soon compleat the Cure?
149
A Phœbus, 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! shall future Ages tell
That I to Phaon's Scorn a Victim fell?
Or hadst thou rather see this tender Breast
Bruis'd on the Cliff, than close to Phaon's prest?
This Breast? which fill'd with bright Poetic Fire,
You made me once believe you did admire:
O cou'd it now supply me with Address
To plead my Cause, and court thee with Success!
But mighty Woes my Genius quite controul,
And damp the rising Vigour of my Soul:
No more, ye Lesbian Nymphs, desire a Song;
Mute is my Voice, my Lute is all unstrung.
My—Phaon's fled, who made my Fancy shine,
(Ah! yet I scarce forbear to call him—Mine.)
150
Inspiring Ardors will revive my Vein.
But why, alas! this unavailing Pray'r?
Vain are my Vows, and fleet with common Air:
My Vows the Winds disperse, and make their sport,
But ne'er will waft him to the Lesbian Port.
Yet if you purpose to return, 'tis wrong
To let your Mistress languish here so long.
Venus for your fair Voyage will compose
The Sea, for from the Sea the Goddess rose:
Cupid, assisted with propitious Gales,
Will hand the Rudder, and direct the Sails.
But! if relentless to my Pray'r you prove;
If still, unkind without a Cause, you'll rove;
And ne'er to Sappho's longing Eyes restore
That Object, which her hourly Vows implore:
'Twill be Compassion now t' avow your Hate;
Write, and confirm the Rigor of my Fate!
Then, steel'd with Resolution by Despair,
For Cure I'll to the kinder Seas repair:
That last Relief for love-sick Minds I'll try;
Phœbus may grant what Phaon cou'd deny.
To let your Mistress languish here so long.
Venus for your fair Voyage will compose
The Sea, for from the Sea the Goddess rose:
Cupid, assisted with propitious Gales,
Will hand the Rudder, and direct the Sails.
But! if relentless to my Pray'r you prove;
If still, unkind without a Cause, you'll rove;
And ne'er to Sappho's longing Eyes restore
That Object, which her hourly Vows implore:
'Twill be Compassion now t' avow your Hate;
Write, and confirm the Rigor of my Fate!
151
For Cure I'll to the kinder Seas repair:
That last Relief for love-sick Minds I'll try;
Phœbus may grant what Phaon cou'd deny.
152
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Advertisement.
The Antients have left us little farther Account of Phaon, than that he was an old Mariner, whom Venus transform'd into a very beautiful Youth, whom Sappho, and several other Lesbian Ladies, fell passionately in love with: And therefore I thought it might be pardonable to vary the Circumstances of his Story, and to add what I thought proper in the following Epistle.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |