 | Poems |  |
76
SAPPHO;
OR, THE RESOLVE.
Yes, I have lov'd: yet often have I said,Love in this breast shall never revel more;
But I will listen to wild ocean's roar,
Or, like some out-cast solitary shade,
Will cling upon the howlings of the wind,
Till I grow deaf and lifeless, cold and blind.
But, ah! enchantress, cease the tender lay,
Nor tune thy lyre to notes, thus softly slow;
Those eyes—oh take those melting eyes away!
Nor let those lips with honey'd sweets o'erflow;—
Nor let meek Pity pale that lovely cheek,
Nor weep, as wretches their long-sufferings speak.
77
Are Lesbian maids, or with such weakness I?
Do Lesbian damsels touch the melting lyre?
My lyre is mute; and I in silence gaze;
As tho' the muse did not this breast inspire,
I lose in tenderer loves the love of praise.
Oh! Sappho, how art thou imprisoned round,
Beauty's weak captive, fast-enchain'd with sound!
Frail, frail resolve! vain promise of a day!
I see, I hear, I feel, and die away.
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