Quicquid erit, melius quam nunc erit: aura, fubito. Et mea non magnum corpora pondus habent. Tu quoque, mollis Amor, pennas fuppone cadenti: Ne fim Leucadiae mortua crimen aquae. Inde chelyn Phoebo communia munera ponam: Et fub ea verfus unus et alter erunt. "Grata lyram pofui tibi, Phoebe, poëtria Sappho: "Convenit illa mihi, convenit illa tibi." Cur tamen Actiacas miferam me mittis ad oras, Cum profugum poffis ipfe referre pedem ? Tu mihi Leucadia potes effe falubrior unda: 220 Et forma et meritis tu mihi Phoebus eris. An potes, o fcopulis undaque ferocior illa, 225 Nunc vellem facunda forent: dolor artibus obftat; Ingeniumque meis fubftitit omne malis. Ye gentle gales, beneath my body blow, And foftly lay me on the waves below! And thou, kind Love, my finking limbs sustain, Spread thy foft wings, and waft me o'er the main, Nor let a Lover's death the guiltless flood profane!) On Phoebus' shrine my harp I'll then bestow, 212 And this Inscription shall be plac❜d below, "Here the who fung, to him that did inspire, Sappho to Phoebus confecrates her Lyre; 215 What fuits with Sappho, Phoebus, fuits with thee; "The gift, the giver, and the God agree." But why, alas, relentless youth, ah why To distant Seas must tender Sappho fly? Thy charms than those may far more pow'rful be, And Phœbus' felf is lefs a God to, me. 221 Ah! canst thou doom me to the rocks and fea, Oh far more faithless and more hard than they? Ah! canft thou rather fee this tender breast Dash'don these rocks than to thy bofom prest? 225 Alas! the Mufes now no more inspire, 230 Non mihi respondent veteres in carmina vires. Plectra dolore tacent: muta dolore lyra eft. Lefbides aequoreae, nupturaque nuptaque proles; Lesbides, Aeolia nomina dicta lyra; 234 240 Lefbides, infamem quae me feciftis amatae; My languid numbers have forgot to flow, 230 And fancy finks beneath a weight of woe. Ye Lesbian Virgins, and ye Lesbian dames, Themes of my verfe, and objects of my flames, No more your groves with my glad fongs fhall ring, No more these hands fhall touch the trembling ftring : My Phaon's fled, and I thofe arts refign 235 (Wretch that I am, to call that Phaon mine!) The flying winds have loft them all in air! 245 If you return---ah why these long delays? Poor Sappho dies while careless Phaon stays. O launch thy bark, nor fear the wat❜ry plain; 250 Venus for thee shall smooth her native main. |