The Poetical Works of Elijah Fenton/Sappho to Phaon. A love epistle, Translated from Ovid
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What, after all my art, will you demand,
Before the whole is read, the writer's hand?
And could you guess from whom this letter came
Before you saw it sign'd with Sappho's name?
Don't wonder, since I'm form'd for lyrics, why 10
The strain is turn'd to plaintive elegy:
I mourn my slighted love: alas! my lute,
And sprightly odes, would ill with sorrow suit.
I'm scorch'd, I burn like fields of corn on fire,
When winds to fan the furious blaze conspire. 10
To flaming Ætna Phaon's pleas'd to roam,
But Sappho feels a fiercer flame at home.
No more my thoughts in even numbers flow;
Verse best befits a mind devoid of woe.
No more I court the nymphs I once carest, 15
But Phaon rules unrivall'd in my breast.
Fair is thy face, thy youth is fit for joy;
A fatal face to me, too cruel Boy!
Enslav'd to those enchanting looks, that wear
The blush of Bacchus and Apollo's air: 20
Assume the garb of either god, in thee
We ev'ry grace of either god may see;
Yet they confess'd the pow'r of female charms
In Daphne's flight and Ariadne's arms;
Tho' neither nymph was fam'd for wit, to move 25
With melting airs the rigid soul to love.
To me the Muse vouchsafes celestial fire,
And my soft numbers glow with warm desire;
Alcæus and myself alike she crown'd,
For softness I and he for strength renown'd. 30
Beauty, ’tis true, penurious Fate denies,
But wit my want of beauty well supplies:
My shape I own is short, but yet my name
Is far diffus'd, and fills the voice of Fame.
If I'm not fair, young Perseus did adore 35
The swarthy graces of the royal Moor[1].
The milk-white doves with mottled mates are join'd,
And the gay parrot to the turtle's kind.
But if you'll fly from love's connubial rites
Till one as charming as yourself invites, 40
None of our sex can ever bless your bed;
Ne'er think of wooing, for you ne'er can wed.
Yet when you read my verse you lik'd each line,
And swore no numbers were so sweet as mine;
I sang, (that pleasing image still is plain, 45
Such tender things we lovers long retain!)
And ever when the warbling notes I rais'd,
You with fierce kisses stifled what you prais'd:
Some winning grace in ev'ry act you found,
But in full tides of ecstasy were drown'd 50
When, murmuring in the melting joys of love,
Round your's my carling limbs began to move;
But now the bright Sicilian maids adore
The youth who seem'd so fond of me before.
Send back, send back my fugitive! for he 55
Will vow to you the vows he made to me:
That smooth deceiving tongue of his can charm
The coyest ear, the roughest pride disarm.
Oh! aid thy poetess, great queen of Love!
Auspicious to my growing passion prove! 60
Fortune was cruel to my tender age,
And still pursues with unrelenting rage.
Of parents whilst a child I was bereft,
To the wide world an helpless orphan left:
My brother in a strumpet's vile embrace 65
Lavish'd a large estate to buy disgrace,
And doom'd to traffic on the main is tost,
Winning with danger what with shame he lost;
And vows revenge on me, who dar'd to blame
His conduct, and was careful of his fame: 70
And then (as if the woes I bore beside
Were yet too light) my little daughter dy'd:
But after all these pangs of sorrow past
A worse came on, for Phaon came at last!
No gems nor rich embroider'd silks I wear; 75
No more in artful curls I comb my hair;
No golden threads the wavy locks inwreath,
Nor Syrian oils diffusive odours breathe:
Why should I put such gay allurements on,
Now he, the darling of my soul, is gone? 80
Soft is my breast, and keen the killing dart,
And he who gave the wound deserves my heart:
My fate is fix'd, for sure the Fates decreed
That he should wound, and Sappho's bosom bleed.
By the smooth blandishments of verse betray'd, 85
In vain I call my reason to my aid:
The Muse is faithless to the fair at best,
But fatal in a love-sick lady's breast.
Yet is it strange so sweet a youth should dart
Flames so resistless to a woman's heart? 90
Him had Aurora seen, he soon had seiz'd
Her soul, and Cephalus no more had pleas'd:
Chaste Cynthia, did she once behold his charms,
For Phaon's would forsake Endymion's arms;
Venus would bear him to her bow'r above, 95
But there she dreads a rival in his love.
O fair perfection thou! nor youth, nor boy,
Fix'd in the bright meridian point for joy!
Come, on my panting breast thy head recline;
Thy love I ask not, only suffer mine: 100
While this I ask (but ask I fear in vain!)
See how my falling tears the letter stain.
At least why would you not vouchsafe to shew
A kind regret, and say, "My dear, adieu!"
Nor parting kiss I gave nor tender tear; 105
My ruin flew on swifter wings than fear:
My wrongs, too safely treasur'd in my mind,
Are all the pledges Phaon left behind;
Nor could I make my last desire to thee,
Sometimes to cast a pitying thought on me. 110
But, Gods! when first the killing news I heard,
What pale amazement in my looks appear'd!
A while o'erwhelm'd with unexpected woe,
My tongue forebore to speak, my eyes to flow:
But when my sense was waken'd to despair, 115
I beat my tender breast, and tore my hair;
As a distracted mother weeps forlorn,
When to the grave her fondling babe is borne.
Mean-while my cruel brother, for relief,
With scorn insults me, and derides my grief: 120
"Poor Soul!" he cries, "I doubt she grows sincere;
"Her daughter is return'd to life I fear."
Mindless of fame, I to the world reveal
The love so long I labour'd to conceal.
Thou, thou art fame, and all the world, to me; 125
All day I dote, and dream all night, of thee:
Tho' Phaon fly to regions far remote,
By Sleep his image to my bed is brought:
Around my neck thy fond embraces twine,
Anon I think my arms encircle thine: 130
Then the warm wishes of my soul I speak,
Which from my tongue in dying murmurs break.
Heav'ns! with thy balmy lips my lips are prest;
And then! ah, then!—I blush to write the rest.
Thus in my dreams the bright ideas play, 135
And gild the glowing scenes of fancy gay:
With life alone my ling'ring love must end;
On thee my love, my life, my all, depend.
But at the dawning day my pleasures fleet,
And I (too soon!) perceive the dear deceit: 140
In caves and groves I seek to calm my grief;
The caves and groves afford me no relief.
Frantic I rove, disorder'd with despair,
And to the winds unbind my scatter'd hair.
I find the shades which to our joys were kind, 145
But my false Phaon there no more I find:
With him the caves were cool, the grove was green,
But now his absence withers all the scene:
There weeping, I the grassy couch survey,
Where side by side we once together lay: 150
I fall where thy forsaken print appears,
And the kind turf imbibes my flowing tears.
The birds and trees to grief assistance bring,
These drop their leaves, and they forbear to sing:
Poor Philomel, of all the quire, alone 155
For mangled Itys warbles out her moan;
Her moan for him trills sweetly thro' the grove,
While Sappho sings of ill-requited love.
To this dear solitude the Naiads bring
Their fruitful urns, to form a silver spring: 160
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.
But, Phaon! why should I this toil endure,
When thy return would soon complete the cure? 190
Thy beauty, and its balmy pow'r, would be
A Phœbus and Leucadian rock to me.
O harder than the rock to which I go,
And deafer than the waves that war below!
Think yet, oh, think! shall future ages tell 195
That I to Phaon's scorn a victim fell?
Or hadst thou rather see this tender breast
Bruis'd on the clift than close to Phaon's prest?
This breast which, fill'd with bright poetic fire,
You made me once believe you did admire! 200
O could it now supply me with address
To plead my cause, and court thee with success!
But mighty woes my genius quite control,
And damp the rising vigour of my soul:
No more, ye Lesbian Nymphs! desire a song; 205
Mute is my voice, my lute is all unstrung;
My—Phaon's fled, who made my fancy shine,
(Ah! yet I scarce forbear to call him—mine.)
Phaon is fled! but bring the youth again,
Inspiring ardours will revive my vein. 210
But why, alas! this unavailing pray'r?
Vain are my vows, and fleet with common air:
My vows the winds disperse, and make their sport,
But ne'er will waft him to the Lesbian port.
Yet if you purpose to return, ’tis wrong 215
To let your mistress languish here so long.
Venus for your fair voyage will compose
The sea, for from the sea the goddess rose:
Cupid, assisted with propitious gales,
Will hand the rudder and direct the sails. 220
But if relentless to my pray'r you prove,
If still, unkind without a cause, you'll rove,
And ne'er to Sappho's longing eyes restore
That object which her hourly vows implore,
'Twill be compassion now t' avow your hate; 225
Write, and confirm the rigour of my fate!
Then, steel'd with resolution by despair,
For cure I'll to the kinder seas repair:
That last relief for love-sick minds I'll try;
Phœbus may grant what Phaon could deny. 230
Before the whole is read, the writer's hand?
And could you guess from whom this letter came
Before you saw it sign'd with Sappho's name?
Don't wonder, since I'm form'd for lyrics, why 10
The strain is turn'd to plaintive elegy:
I mourn my slighted love: alas! my lute,
And sprightly odes, would ill with sorrow suit.
I'm scorch'd, I burn like fields of corn on fire,
When winds to fan the furious blaze conspire. 10
To flaming Ætna Phaon's pleas'd to roam,
But Sappho feels a fiercer flame at home.
No more my thoughts in even numbers flow;
Verse best befits a mind devoid of woe.
No more I court the nymphs I once carest, 15
But Phaon rules unrivall'd in my breast.
Fair is thy face, thy youth is fit for joy;
A fatal face to me, too cruel Boy!
Enslav'd to those enchanting looks, that wear
The blush of Bacchus and Apollo's air: 20
Assume the garb of either god, in thee
We ev'ry grace of either god may see;
Yet they confess'd the pow'r of female charms
In Daphne's flight and Ariadne's arms;
Tho' neither nymph was fam'd for wit, to move 25
With melting airs the rigid soul to love.
To me the Muse vouchsafes celestial fire,
And my soft numbers glow with warm desire;
Alcæus and myself alike she crown'd,
For softness I and he for strength renown'd. 30
Beauty, ’tis true, penurious Fate denies,
But wit my want of beauty well supplies:
My shape I own is short, but yet my name
Is far diffus'd, and fills the voice of Fame.
If I'm not fair, young Perseus did adore 35
The swarthy graces of the royal Moor[1].
The milk-white doves with mottled mates are join'd,
And the gay parrot to the turtle's kind.
But if you'll fly from love's connubial rites
Till one as charming as yourself invites, 40
None of our sex can ever bless your bed;
Ne'er think of wooing, for you ne'er can wed.
Yet when you read my verse you lik'd each line,
And swore no numbers were so sweet as mine;
I sang, (that pleasing image still is plain, 45
Such tender things we lovers long retain!)
And ever when the warbling notes I rais'd,
You with fierce kisses stifled what you prais'd:
Some winning grace in ev'ry act you found,
But in full tides of ecstasy were drown'd 50
When, murmuring in the melting joys of love,
Round your's my carling limbs began to move;
But now the bright Sicilian maids adore
The youth who seem'd so fond of me before.
Send back, send back my fugitive! for he 55
Will vow to you the vows he made to me:
That smooth deceiving tongue of his can charm
The coyest ear, the roughest pride disarm.
Oh! aid thy poetess, great queen of Love!
Auspicious to my growing passion prove! 60
Fortune was cruel to my tender age,
And still pursues with unrelenting rage.
Of parents whilst a child I was bereft,
To the wide world an helpless orphan left:
My brother in a strumpet's vile embrace 65
Lavish'd a large estate to buy disgrace,
And doom'd to traffic on the main is tost,
Winning with danger what with shame he lost;
And vows revenge on me, who dar'd to blame
His conduct, and was careful of his fame: 70
And then (as if the woes I bore beside
Were yet too light) my little daughter dy'd:
But after all these pangs of sorrow past
A worse came on, for Phaon came at last!
No gems nor rich embroider'd silks I wear; 75
No more in artful curls I comb my hair;
No golden threads the wavy locks inwreath,
Nor Syrian oils diffusive odours breathe:
Why should I put such gay allurements on,
Now he, the darling of my soul, is gone? 80
Soft is my breast, and keen the killing dart,
And he who gave the wound deserves my heart:
My fate is fix'd, for sure the Fates decreed
That he should wound, and Sappho's bosom bleed.
By the smooth blandishments of verse betray'd, 85
In vain I call my reason to my aid:
The Muse is faithless to the fair at best,
But fatal in a love-sick lady's breast.
Yet is it strange so sweet a youth should dart
Flames so resistless to a woman's heart? 90
Him had Aurora seen, he soon had seiz'd
Her soul, and Cephalus no more had pleas'd:
Chaste Cynthia, did she once behold his charms,
For Phaon's would forsake Endymion's arms;
Venus would bear him to her bow'r above, 95
But there she dreads a rival in his love.
O fair perfection thou! nor youth, nor boy,
Fix'd in the bright meridian point for joy!
Come, on my panting breast thy head recline;
Thy love I ask not, only suffer mine: 100
While this I ask (but ask I fear in vain!)
See how my falling tears the letter stain.
At least why would you not vouchsafe to shew
A kind regret, and say, "My dear, adieu!"
Nor parting kiss I gave nor tender tear; 105
My ruin flew on swifter wings than fear:
My wrongs, too safely treasur'd in my mind,
Are all the pledges Phaon left behind;
Nor could I make my last desire to thee,
Sometimes to cast a pitying thought on me. 110
But, Gods! when first the killing news I heard,
What pale amazement in my looks appear'd!
A while o'erwhelm'd with unexpected woe,
My tongue forebore to speak, my eyes to flow:
But when my sense was waken'd to despair, 115
I beat my tender breast, and tore my hair;
As a distracted mother weeps forlorn,
When to the grave her fondling babe is borne.
Mean-while my cruel brother, for relief,
With scorn insults me, and derides my grief: 120
"Poor Soul!" he cries, "I doubt she grows sincere;
"Her daughter is return'd to life I fear."
Mindless of fame, I to the world reveal
The love so long I labour'd to conceal.
Thou, thou art fame, and all the world, to me; 125
All day I dote, and dream all night, of thee:
Tho' Phaon fly to regions far remote,
By Sleep his image to my bed is brought:
Around my neck thy fond embraces twine,
Anon I think my arms encircle thine: 130
Then the warm wishes of my soul I speak,
Which from my tongue in dying murmurs break.
Heav'ns! with thy balmy lips my lips are prest;
And then! ah, then!—I blush to write the rest.
Thus in my dreams the bright ideas play, 135
And gild the glowing scenes of fancy gay:
With life alone my ling'ring love must end;
On thee my love, my life, my all, depend.
But at the dawning day my pleasures fleet,
And I (too soon!) perceive the dear deceit: 140
In caves and groves I seek to calm my grief;
The caves and groves afford me no relief.
Frantic I rove, disorder'd with despair,
And to the winds unbind my scatter'd hair.
I find the shades which to our joys were kind, 145
But my false Phaon there no more I find:
With him the caves were cool, the grove was green,
But now his absence withers all the scene:
There weeping, I the grassy couch survey,
Where side by side we once together lay: 150
I fall where thy forsaken print appears,
And the kind turf imbibes my flowing tears.
The birds and trees to grief assistance bring,
These drop their leaves, and they forbear to sing:
Poor Philomel, of all the quire, alone 155
For mangled Itys warbles out her moan;
Her moan for him trills sweetly thro' the grove,
While Sappho sings of ill-requited love.
To this dear solitude the Naiads bring
Their fruitful urns, to form a silver spring: 160
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.
But, Phaon! why should I this toil endure,
When thy return would soon complete the cure? 190
Thy beauty, and its balmy pow'r, would be
A Phœbus and Leucadian rock to me.
O harder than the rock to which I go,
And deafer than the waves that war below!
Think yet, oh, think! shall future ages tell 195
That I to Phaon's scorn a victim fell?
Or hadst thou rather see this tender breast
Bruis'd on the clift than close to Phaon's prest?
This breast which, fill'd with bright poetic fire,
You made me once believe you did admire! 200
O could it now supply me with address
To plead my cause, and court thee with success!
But mighty woes my genius quite control,
And damp the rising vigour of my soul:
No more, ye Lesbian Nymphs! desire a song; 205
Mute is my voice, my lute is all unstrung;
My—Phaon's fled, who made my fancy shine,
(Ah! yet I scarce forbear to call him—mine.)
Phaon is fled! but bring the youth again,
Inspiring ardours will revive my vein. 210
But why, alas! this unavailing pray'r?
Vain are my vows, and fleet with common air:
My vows the winds disperse, and make their sport,
But ne'er will waft him to the Lesbian port.
Yet if you purpose to return, ’tis wrong 215
To let your mistress languish here so long.
Venus for your fair voyage will compose
The sea, for from the sea the goddess rose:
Cupid, assisted with propitious gales,
Will hand the rudder and direct the sails. 220
But if relentless to my pray'r you prove,
If still, unkind without a cause, you'll rove,
And ne'er to Sappho's longing eyes restore
That object which her hourly vows implore,
'Twill be compassion now t' avow your hate; 225
Write, and confirm the rigour of my fate!
Then, steel'd with resolution by despair,
For cure I'll to the kinder seas repair:
That last relief for love-sick minds I'll try;
Phœbus may grant what Phaon could deny. 230
- ↑ Andromeda.