AY, lovely Youth, that do'ft my Heart command,
Can Phaon's Eyes forget his Sapho's Hand?
Muft then her Name the wretched Writer prove,
To thy Remembrance loft, as to thy Love?
Afk not the Cause that I new Numbers chufe,
The Lute neglected, and the Lyric muse;
Love taught my Tears in fadder Notes to flow,
And tun'd my Heart to Elegies of Woe.
I burn, I burn, as when thro' ripen'd Corn
By driving Winds the fpreading Flames are born!
Phaon to Etna's fcorching Fields retires,
While I confume with more than Etna's Fires!
No more my
Soul a Charm in Mufic finds,
Mufic has Charms alone for peaceful Minds.
Soft Scenes of Solitude no more can please,
Love enters there, and I'm my own Disease.
No more the Lesbian Dames my Paffion move,
Once the dear Objects of my guilty Love;
F 2
All other Loves are loft in only thine,
Ah Youth ungrateful to a Flame like mine! Whom would not all those blooming Charms furprize,
Those heavenly Looks, and dear deluding Eyes?
The Harp and Bow would you like, Phabus bear,
A brighter Phabus Phaon might appear;
Would you with Ivy wreath your flowing Hair,
Not Bacchus' felf with Phaon could compare :
Yet Phabus lov'd, and Bacchus felt the Flame,
One Daphne warm'd, and one the Cretan Dame,
Nymphs that in Verse no more could rival me,
Than ev'n those Gods contend in Charms with thee.
The Muses teach me all their foftest Lays,
And the wide World refounds with Sapho's Praise,
Tho' great Alcaus more fublimely fings,
And strikes with bolder Rage the founding Strings,
No lefs Renown attends the moving Lyre,
Which Venus tunes, and all her Loves inspire,
To me what Nature has in Charms deny'd,
Is well by Wit's more lafting Flames fupply'd.
Tho' fhort my Stature, yet my Name extends
To Heav'n itself, and Earth's remotest Ends.
Brown as I am, an Ethiopian Dame
Infpir'd young Perfeus with a gen'rous Flame,
Turtles and Doves of diff'ring Hues, unite,
And gloffy jet is pair'd with fhining White.
If to no Charms thou wilt thy Heart refign,
But fuch as merit, fuch as equal thine,
By none alas! by none thou canst be mov'd,
Phaon alone by Phaon must be lov'd!
Yet once thy Sapho could thy Cares employ,
Once in her Arms you center'd all your Joy :
No Time the dear Remembrance can remove,
For oh! how vaft a Memory has Love?
My Mufic, then, you could for ever hear,
And all my Words were Mufic to your Ear.
You stopp'd with Kiffes my inchanting tongue,
And found my Kiffes fweeter than my Song.
In all I pleas'd, but most in what was beft;
And the laft Joy was dearer than the reft.
Then with each Word, each Glance, each Motion fir'd,
You ftill enjoy'd, and yet you ftill defir'd,
'Till all diffolving in the Trance we lay,
And in tumultuous Raptures dy'd away.
The fair Sicilians now thy Soul inflame;
Why was I born, ye Gods, a Lesbian Dame?
But ah beware, Sicilian Nymphs! nor boast
That wand'ring Heart which I fo lately loft;
Nor be with all thofe tempting Words abus'd,
Those tempting Words were all to Sapho us'd.
And you that rule Sicilia's happy Plains,
Have Pity, Venus, on your Poet's Pains!
Shall Fortune ftill in one fad Tenor run,
And ftill increase the Woe so soon begun ?
Enur'd to Sorrow from my tender Years,
My Parent's Ashes drank my early Tears:
My Brother next, neglecting Wealth and Fame,
Ignobly burn'd in a destructive Flame :
An infant Daughter late my Griefs increas'd,
And all a Mother's Cares diftract my Breaft.
Alas, what more could Fate itself impose,
But thee, the laft and greatest of my Woes?
No more my Robes in waving Purple flow,
Nor on my Hand the sparkling Diamonds glow;
No more my Locks in Ringlets curl'd diffuse
The coftly Sweetnefs of Arabian Dews,
Nor Braids of Gold the varied Treffes bind,
That fly disorder'd with the wanton Wind:
For whom should Sapho use fuch Arts as these?
He's gone, whom only she defir'd to please!
Cupid's light Darts my tender Bosom move,
Still is there Caufe for Sapho ftill to love :
So from my Birth the Sisters fix'd my Doom,
And gave to Venus all my Life to come;
Or while my Mufe in melting Notes complains,
My yielding Heart keeps Meafure to my Strains.
By Charms like thine which all my Soul have won,
Who might not
-ah! who would not be un-
For thofe Aurora Cephalus might fcorn,
And with fresh Blushes paint the conscious Morn.
For thofe might Cynthia lengthen Phaon's Sleep,
And bid Endymion nightly tend his Sheep.
Venus for those had rapt thee to the Skies,
But Mars on thee might look with Venus' Eyes.
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