Madam furpriz'd, (you muft fuppofe it)"
Had lock'd a Templar in the closet:
A youth of pregnant parts, and worth,
To play at picquet, and fo forth---
This wag, when he had heard the whole,
Demurely to the curtain stole;
And peeping in, with folemn tone
Cry'd out, O man! thy days are done :
The gods are fearful of the worst,
And fend me, Death, to fetch thee first;
To fave their favourite from felf-murder,
Lo! thus I execute their order.
Hold, Sir, for fecond thoughts are best,
The husband cry'd; 'tis my request
With pleafure to prolong my life.---
Your meaning ---Pray, fir, take my wife.
WHAT, after all my art, will you demand,
Before the whole is read, the writer's hand?
And could you guefs from whom this letter came
Before you faw it fign'd with Sappho's name?
Don't wonder, fince I'm form'd for lyricks, why
The ftrain is turn'd to plaintive elegy;
I mourn my flighted love; alas! my lute,
And fprighly odes, would ill with forrow fuit.
I'm fcorch'd, I burn, like fields of corn on fire,
When winds to fan the furious blaze confpire.
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,
Verfe beft befits a mind devoid of woe.
No more I court the nymphs I once careft,
But Phaon rules unrival'd in my breaft.
Fair is thy face, thy youth is fit for joy ;
A fatal face to me, too cruel boy!
Enflav'd to thofe enchanting looks, that weat
The blush of Bacchus and Apollo's air;
Affume the garb of either god, in thee
We every grace of either god may fee;
Yet they confefs'd the power of female charms,
In Daphne's flight and Ariadne's arms;
Though neither nymph was fam'd for wit, to move
With melting airs the rigid foul to love.
To me the Mufe vouchsafes celeftial fire,
And my foft numbers glow with warm defire;
Alcæus and myfelf alike the crown'd,
For softness I, and he for strength renown'd.
Beauty, 'tis true, penurious fate denies,
But wit my want of beauty well fupplies :
My fhape I own is fhort, but yet my name
Is far diffus'd, and fills the voice of fame.
If I'm not fair, young Perfeus did adore The fwarthy graces of the royal * Moor: 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 yourfelf invites, None of our fex can ever blefs your bed, Ne'er think of wooing, for you ne'er can wed. Yet, when you read my verfe, you lik'd each line, And fwore no numbers were fo fweet as mine; I fang (that pleafing image ftill is plain, Such tender things we lovers long retain!) And ever when the warbling notes I rais'd, You with fierce kiffes ftifled what you prais'd. Some winning grace in every act you found, But in full tides of ecftafy were drown'd; When murmuring in the melting joys of love, Round yours my curling limbs began to move: But now the bright Sicilian maids adore The youth, who feem'd fo fond of me before: Send back, fend back my fugitive! for he Will vow to you the vows he made to me : That smooth deceiving tongue of his can charm The coyeft ear, the roughest pride difarm. Oh, aid thy poetefs, great Queen of Love, Aufpicious to my growing paffion prove! Fortune was cruel to my tender age, And ftill purfues with unrelenting rage,
Of parents, whilft a child, I was bereft,
To the wide world an helpless orphan left :
My brother in a ftrumpet's vile embrace
Lavish'd a large eftate to buy difgrace,
And doom'd to traffick on the main is toft,
Winning with danger what with shame he oft,
And vows revenge on me, who dar'd to blame
His conduct, and was careful of his fame:
And then (as if the woes I bore beside
Were yet too light) my little daughter dy'd.
But after all thefe pangs of forrow past,
A worfe came on, for Phaon came at last!
No gems, nor rich embroider'd filks, I wear;
No more in artful curls I comb my hair;
No golden threads the wavy locks inwreath,
Nor Syrian oils diffufive odours breathe :
Why should I put fuch gay allurements on,
Now he, the darling of my foul, is gone?
Soft is my breaft, and keen the killing dart,
And he who gave the wound deserves my heart;
My fate is fix'd, for fure the fates decreed
That he fhould wound, and Sappho's bofom bleed.
By the fimooth blandishments of verfe betray'd,
In vain I call my reafon to my aid;
The Mufe is faithlefs to the fair at beft,
But fatal in a love-fick lady's breaft.
Yet is it ftrange fo fweet a youth fhould dart Flames fo refiftlefs to a woman's heart?
Him had Aurora feen, he foon had feiz'd
Her foul, and Cephalus no more had pleas'd :
Chafte Cynthia, did fhe once behold his charms,
For Phaon's would forfake Endymion's arms;
Venus would bear him to her bower above,
But there the 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 breaft thy head recline,
Thy love I ask not, only fuffer mine :
While this I afk (but aik I fear in vain)
See how my falling tears the letter stain.
At least, why would you not vouchsafe to fhew
A kind regret, and fay, "My dear, adieu !”
Nor parting kifs I gave, nor tender tear,
My ruin flew on fwifter wings than fear :
My wrongs, too fafely treafur'd in my mind,
Are all the pledges P'haon left behind ;
Nor could I make my last defire to thee,
Sometimes to caft a pitying thought on me.
But, gods! when firft, the killing news I heard,
What pale amazement in my looks appear'd!
A while o'erwhelm'd with unexpected woe,
My tongue forbore to speak, my eyes to flow.
But when my fense was waken'd to despair,
I beat my tender breaft, and tore my hair:
As a diftracted mother weeps forlorn,
When to the grave her fondling babe is borne.
Meanwhile my cruel brother, for relief,
With fcorn infults me, and derides my grief:
Poor foul! he cries, I doubt fhe grows fincere ;
Her daughter is return'd to life I fear.
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