 | Sappho |  |
SCENE VII.
LYCIDAS, SAPPHO, DORIS.Lyc.
Heard ye that pensive strain? it was the voice
Of Doris. See, reclin'd upon yon bed
Of fragrant violets she sits and weeps!
Hasten, I pray thee, and with some soft air
Chase from her breast the cloud of black despair.
[Lycidas retires behind the Bower, while Sappho sits down at her feet, plays a pastoral symphony on her reed, and then sings.
Sap.
The youth that gazes on thy charms,
Rivals in bliss the gods on high,
Whose ear thy pleasing converse warms,
Thy lovely smile his eye.
But trembling awe my bosom heaves,
When plac'd those heav'nly charms among;
The sight my voice of power bereaves,
And chains my torpid tongue.
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The subtle flame; in dimness drear
My eyes are veil'd; a murm'ring noise
Glides tinkling thro' my ear;
Death's chilly dew my limbs o'erspreads,
Shiv'ring, convuls'd, I panting lye;
And pale, as is the flower that fades,
I droop, I faint, I die!
Dor.
Who art thou, bright-ey'd Spirit? for those strains
Bespeak thee more than human. Tell me, which
Of the tun'd spheres thou guid'st, and why hast left
The chiming orb to sooth my mortal ear
With thy celestial warblings?
| Sappho | |