THE WORKS OF SAPPHO.
Translated from the Greek.
Mark, Muse! the conscious Shade and vocal Grove,
Where Sappho tun'd her melting Voice to Love,
While Echo each harmonious Strain return'd,
And with the soft complaining Lesbian mourn'd.
Progress of Poetry.
THE ODES OF SAPPHO.
ODE I. AN HYMN TO VENUS.
I
Venus
, bright Goddess of the Skies,
To whom unnumber'd Temples rise,
Jove's Daughter fair, whose wily Arts
Delude fond Lovers of their Hearts;
O! listen gracious to my Prayer,
And free my Mind from Anxious Care.
II
If e'er you heard my ardent Vow,
Propitious Goddess, hear me now!
And oft my ardent Vow you've heard,
By Cupid's friendly Aid preferr'd,
Oft left the golden Courts of Jove,
To listen to my Tales of Love.
III
The radiant Car your Sparrows drew;
You gave the Word, and swift they flew,
Through liquid Air they wing'd their Way,
I saw their quivering Pinions play;
To my plain Roof they bore their Queen,
Of Aspect mild, and Look serene.
IV
Soon as you came, by your Command,
Back flew the wanton feather'd Band,
Then, with a sweet enchanting Look,
Divinely smiling, thus you spoke:
‘Why didst thou call me to thy Cell?
‘Tell me, my gentle Sappho, tell.
V
‘What healing Medicine shall I find
‘To cure thy love-distemper'd Mind?
‘Say, shall I lend thee all my Charms,
‘To win young Phaon to thy Arms?
‘Or does some other Swain subdue
‘Thy Heart? my Sappho, tell me who?
VI
‘Though now, averse, thy Charms he slight,
‘He soon shall view thee with Delight;
‘Though now he scorns thy Gifts to take,
‘He soon to thee shall Offerings make;
‘Though now thy Beauties fail to move,
‘He soon shall melt with equal Love.’
VII
Once more, O Venus, hear my Prayer,
And ease my Mind of anxious Care;
Again vouchsafe to be my Guest,
And calm this Tempest in my Breast!
To thee, bright Queen, my Vows aspire;
O grant me all my Heart's Desire!
ODE II.
[More happy than the Gods is he]
Whatever might have been the Occasion of this Ode, the
English Reader will enter into the Beauties of it, if he
supposes it to have been written in the Person of a Lover sitting by his Mistress.
Addison, Spectator, No. 229.
I
More happy than the Gods is he
Who, soft-reclining, sits by thee;
His Ears thy pleasing Talk beguiles,
His Eyes thy sweetly-dimpled Smiles.
II
This, this, alas! alarm'd my Breast,
And robb'd me of my golden Rest:
While gazing on thy Charms I hung,
My Voice died faltering on my Tongue.
III
With subtle Flames my Bosom glows,
Quick through each Vein the Poison flows:
Dark, dimming Mists my Eyes surround;
My Ears with hollow Murmurs sound.
IV
My Limbs with dewy Chillness freeze,
On my whole Frame pale Tremblings seize,
And losing Colour, Sense and Breath,
I seem quite languishing in Death.
