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ODE X.
But lo, to Sappho's mournful airs
Descends the radiant Queen of love;
She smiles, and asks what fonder cares
Her suppliant's plaintive measures move:
Why is my faithful maid distrest?
Who, Sappho, wounds thy tender breast?
Say, flies he?Soon he shall pursue:
Shuns he thy gifts?He too shall give:
Slights he thy sorrows?He shall grieve,
And bend him to thy haughtiest vow.
But, O Melpomene, for whom
Awakes thy golden shell again?
What mortal breath shall e'er presume
To eccho that unbounded strain?
Majestic in the frown of years,
Behold, the [1]Man of Thebes appears:
For some there are, whose mighty frame
The hand of Jove at birth indow'd
With hopes that mock the gazing crowd;
As eagles drink the noontide flame,
While
