TRANSLATIONS, &c.
143
The trees that on the shady margin grow
Are green above, the banks are green below:
Here while by sorrow lull'd asleep I lay,
Thus, said the guardian nymph, or seem'd to say:
"Fly, Sappho! fly; to cure this deep despair 165
"To the Leucadian rock in haste repair,
"High on whose hoary top an awful fane,
"To Phœbus rear'd, surveys the subject main.
"This desp'rate cure, of old, Deucalion try'd,
"For love to fury wrought by Pyrrha's pride; 170
"Into the waves, as holy rites require,
"Headlong he leap'd, and quench'd his hopeless fire:
"Her frozen breast a sudden flame subdu'd,
"And she who fled the youth the youth pursu’d.
"Like him, to give thy raging passion ease, 175
"Precipitate thyself into the seas."
This said, she disappear'd. I, deadly wan,
Rose up, and gushing tears unbounded ran.
I fly, ye Nymphs! I fly; tho' fear assail
The woman, yet the lover must prevail. 180
In death what terrors can deserve my care?
The pangs of death are gentler than despair.
Ye Winds! and, Cupid! thou, to meet my fall
Your downy pinions spread; my weight is small.
Thus rescu'd, to the god of Verse I'll bow, 185
Hang up my lute, and thus inscribe my vow:
To Phœbus grateful Sappho gave this lute;
The gift did both the god and giver suit.
Are green above, the banks are green below:
Here while by sorrow lull'd asleep I lay,
Thus, said the guardian nymph, or seem'd to say:
"Fly, Sappho! fly; to cure this deep despair 165
"To the Leucadian rock in haste repair,
"High on whose hoary top an awful fane,
"To Phœbus rear'd, surveys the subject main.
"This desp'rate cure, of old, Deucalion try'd,
"For love to fury wrought by Pyrrha's pride; 170
"Into the waves, as holy rites require,
"Headlong he leap'd, and quench'd his hopeless fire:
"Her frozen breast a sudden flame subdu'd,
"And she who fled the youth the youth pursu’d.
"Like him, to give thy raging passion ease, 175
"Precipitate thyself into the seas."
This said, she disappear'd. I, deadly wan,
Rose up, and gushing tears unbounded ran.
I fly, ye Nymphs! I fly; tho' fear assail
The woman, yet the lover must prevail. 180
In death what terrors can deserve my care?
The pangs of death are gentler than despair.
Ye Winds! and, Cupid! thou, to meet my fall
Your downy pinions spread; my weight is small.
Thus rescu'd, to the god of Verse I'll bow, 185
Hang up my lute, and thus inscribe my vow:
To Phœbus grateful Sappho gave this lute;
The gift did both the god and giver suit.
