The number of poems or fragments (Pl. 8) of Sappho has increased from a hundred and twenty in Volger’s edition (1810) to a hundred and ninety-one in Edmonds. “Though few they are roses,” and a marvellous vitality and mentality permeates their mangled and marred members. Sappho probably had her own collection of her poems, but they were surely not published in a large edition as has sometimes been said. An introductory poem is possibly preserved on an Attic vase, but even of that we cannot be sure. In Roman days there were two editions, one arranged according to subject and the other according to metre, both based on some Alexandrian source much earlier than the book On the Metres of Sappho, published by Dracon of Stratonicea about 180 A.D. Sappho wrote many forms of literature in many different metres, cult hymns or odes, marriage songs, scolia or drinking songs, songs of love and friendship, besides her nine books of lyrics, epigrams, elegies, none of which has survived or been described by any other author, iambics, monodies, and funeral songs like that for Adonis. The Athenian dramatists even pictured her as proposing puzzles and riddles. Colombarius, as quoted by Meursius in his notes on Hesychius, called Sappho the poetess of the Trojans, the meaning of which has recently been made clear by the discovery of the Marriage of Hector and Andromache.

The first poem is the Ode to Aphrodite which was cited by Dionysius of Halicarnassus for its finished and brilliant style,—the style used by Euripides among the tragedians and by Isocrates among the orators. Though the rhythm, ardor, terseness, and noble simplicity can be given in no translation,73 nearly every lover of Greek lyrics has tried his hand at it. Ambrose Philips made thirty-four words out of the first stanza which in the Greek has only sixteen; Merivale found forty-three words necessary; but Tucker and Leonard with strict compression and simplicity manage to translate with twenty-three; Gildersleeve in an unpublished version which I also quote here, and Fairclough use twenty-four:

or, with the translation of doves for sparrows:

Here follow two translations where “he” is changed to “she” in the sixth stanza. The controversy as to the sex of the belovÈd turns on the admission or omission of a single letter in the Greek.

The second ode, quoted in a mutilated condition by the treatise On the Sublime, is even more difficult to translate. As Wordsworth says, here

In its rich Aeolian dialect the ode glows with true Greek fire. Sappho’s words are clear but far from cold. They are a sea of glass, but a sea of glass mingled with fire such as the Patmos seer saw from his island not far from Sappho’s Lesbian home. They enable us to understand why Byron in Don Juan speaks of “the isles of Greece where burning Sappho loved and sung.” This is what Swinburne means, when he speaks of the fire eternal and in his Sapphics says that about her “shone a light of fire as a crown for ever.” We know from Plutarch75 that an ancient physician, Erasistratus, included this ode (which has influenced realistic descriptions of passion from Euripides and Theocritus to Swinburne and Sara Teasdale) in his book of diagnoses as a compendium of all the symptoms of corroding emotions. He applied this psychological test whenever Antiochus looked on Stratonice. “There appeared in the case of Antiochus all those symptoms which Sappho mentions: the choking of the voice, the feverish blush, the obscuring of vision, profuse sweat, disordered and tumultuous pulse and finally, when he was completely overcome, bewilderment, amazement and pallor.” Perhaps Sappho was influenced by Homer’s76 description of fear and she herself surely suggested such symptoms to Lucretius.77 We must regard the ode primarily as a literary product, but its pathological picture of passion is hardly secondary. Even if the symptoms seem appalling to our cold and unexpressive northern blood, we must remember that this physical perturbation, as Tucker calls it, was in no way strange to the ancients. Gildersleeve put it well in his unpublished lecture on Sappho, which he so kindly placed at my disposal and to which I am greatly indebted: “if a Greek melted, he melted with a fervent heat, and if this is true of the average Greek how much more was it true of an Aeolian and an Aeolian woman, and of Sappho most Aeolian of all.” Byron refers to this ode when he says in Don Juan:

With regard to Catullus’ rendering (LI), Swinburne in his Notes on Poems and Reviews, speaking of his poem Anactoria, says: “Catullus translated or as his countrymen would now say ‘traduced’ the Ode to Anactoria; a more beautiful translation there never was and will never be; but compared with the Greek, it is colourless and bloodless, puffed out by additions and enfeebled by alterations. Let anyone set against each other the two first stanzas, Latin and Greek, and pronounce.... Where Catullus failed I could not hope to succeed; I tried instead to reproduce in a diluted and dilated form the spirit of a poem which could not be reproduced in the body.”

Tennyson has given the best paraphrase in EleÄnore:

The following version I have based mainly on Edmonds’ recent text,78 with a conjectural restoration of the last stanza, of which only a few words are preserved in the Greek:

As J. A. K. Thomson says in his recent fascinating book Greeks and Barbarians (London and New York, 1921), “Sappho, in the most famous of her odes, says that love makes her ‘sweat’ with agony and look ‘greener than grass.’ Perhaps she did not turn quite so green as that, although (commentators nobly observe) she would be of an olive complexion and had never seen British grass. But even if it contain a trace of artistic exaggeration, the ode as a whole is perhaps the most convincing love-poem ever written. It breathes veracity. It has an intoxicating beauty of sound and suggestion, and it is as exact as a physiological treatise. The Greeks can do that kind of thing. Somehow we either overdo the ‘beauty’ or we overdo the physiology. The weakness of the Barbarian, said they, is that he never hits the mean. But the Greek poet seems to do it every time. We may beat them at other things, but not at that. And they do it with so little effort; sometimes, it might happen, with none at all.”

The passion of love is the supreme subject of Sappho’s songs, as shown by these first two and many a short fragment, as for example (E. 81) where Love is called for the first time in literature “sweet-bitter.” Some scholars have credited it to the much later Posidippus, but he and Meleager took the word from Sappho, though it may not have been original even with her. Sappho’s order of the compound word is generally reversed in translation, but Sir Edwin Arnold says “sweetly bitter, sadly dear,” and Swinburne in Tristram of Lyonesse speaks of “Sweet Love, that are so bitter.” Tennyson also has the same order in Lancelot and Elaine (pp. 205-206). To Sappho love is a second death, and in the second ode death itself seems not very far away. The Greek words for swooning are mostly metaphors from death, and so we are not surprised when we read that like death love relaxes every limb and sweeps one away in its giddy swirling, a sweet-bitter resistless wild beast. Here is Sir Sidney Colvin’s translation (John Keats, 1917, p. 332): “Love the limb-loosener, the bitter-sweet torment, the wild beast there is no withstanding, never harried a more helpless victim.” Another fragment (E. 54) also shows the power of love:

Sappho’s range of subjects is much greater than the personal emotions of love, though very personal and individual feelings predominate. She touches almost every field of human experience, so that there is much in her scant fragments to bring her near to us. The wail against ingratitude comes home to those high-strung natures who do good to others but are sensitive to every wrong when they have the unfortunate experience of learning that one’s friends are sometimes one’s own worst enemies. “Those harm me most by whom I have done well” (Mackail). But she is not one of those who bear a grudge long, her heart is for peace. One of the few ethical fragments, as Mackail says, “is a speech of delicate self-abasement, spoken with the effect of a catch in the voice and tears behind the eyes;” “No rancour in this breast runs wild, I have the heart of a child.” Sappho’s love of sermonizing is seen in her commandment: “when anger swells in the heart, restrain the idly barking tongue.” From Aristotle’s Rhetoric Edmonds (91) reconstructs another fragment:

In another fragment of a different nature (E. 120) we read: “Stand up, look me in the face as friend to friend and unveil the charm that is in thy eyes.” In other fragments we enter a Lesbian lady’s home and see woman’s love of dress,—no short skirt for her, for they “wrapped her all around with soft cambric” (E. 105). “A motley gown of fair Lydian work reached down to her feet” (E. 20), or, if we believe Pollux (VII. 93), it is the Greek love of fine shoes. No Lesbian butchery for her tender feet, but she must wear soft luxurious Lydian slippers: “A broidered strap of fair Lydian work covered her feet.” Punning on the name of Timas (precious), another fragment, which perhaps refers to a statue of Aphrodite in Sappho’s home, seems to dote on fancy handkerchiefs; “and hanging on either side thy face the purple handkerchief which Timas sent for thee from Phocaea, a precious gift from a precious giver” (E. 87).79 The fragment (E. 21), “shot with a thousand hues,” refers to dress rather than to the rainbow. The sight of beautiful gowns thrilled her: “Come you back, my rosebud Gongyla, in your milk-white gown.” Again she says: “Many are the golden bracelets and the purple robes, aye and the fine smooth broideries, indeed a richly varied bride-gift; and without number also are the silver goblets and the ornaments of ivory” (E. 66). She coined new words for women; she calls the chest in which women keep their perfumes and like things a grutÉ or hutch (E. 180). Again she uses (E. 179) the word Beudos for a short diaphanous frock or blouse. She is the first to use the word Chlamys, where she speaks of Love as “coming from Heaven and throwing off his purple mantle” (E. 69). Blondes were much admired among the fair-haired Lesbians, though Sappho herself was a brunette, and so she herself mentions (E. 189) a kind of box-wood or scytharium-wood with which women dye their hair a golden color. She is fond of cassia and frankincense (E. 66), and she dotes on myrrh and royal perfumes (E. 83). She rebukes the foolish girl who prides herself on her ring.80 With “a keen swift flicker of woman’s jealousy,” and well acquainted with the philosophy of clothes and with the new Ionic dresses introduced into Lesbus during her own lifetime at the beginning of the sixth century B.C. from Asia Minor, she jests about her rival Andromeda, the country girl who knows not how to manage the train of her new gown81 (E. 98):

There is an intimate love of the loveliness of nature in Sappho, as we should expect of one resident on an island under Ionian skies where, as Herodotus (I. 142) says, “the climate and seasons are the most beautiful of any cities in the world.” “The many garlanded earth puts on her broidery” (E. 133). “Thus of old did the dainty feet of Cretan maidens dance pat to the music beside some lovely altar, pressing the soft smooth bloom of the grass” (E. 114). As Thomas Davidson has so well said: “every hour of the day comes to Sappho with a fresh surprise.” We lie down for a noonday siesta in “a murmurous, blossomy June,” as Stebbing puts it, in the orchard of the nymphs where (E. 4),

In the Greek, as Edwin Cox says, “the sound of the words, the repetition of long vowels particularly omega, the poetic imagery of the whole and the drowsy cadence of the last two words give this fragment a combination of qualities probably not surpassed in any language.” The beautiful verses about the pippin on the topmost branch we shall quote below. In another fragment (E. 3) Sappho sees the stars in a way which Tennyson echoes when he writes: “As when in heaven the stars about the moon Look beautiful.” Or again Sappho’s love of nature appears in the line (E. 112): “the moon rose full and the maidens took their stand about the altar.” In the new Ode to Atthis the moon is not silver (as in E. 3) but rosy-fingered: “after sunset the rosy-fingered moon beside the stars that are about her, when she spreads her light o’er briny sea and eke o’er flowery field, while the dew lies so fair on the ground and the roses revive and the dainty anthrysc and the melilot with all its blooms” (E. 86). Recently (1922) A. C. Benson in The Reed of Pan has combined fragment (E. 3) with the beautiful half stanza quoted above, under the title Moonrise:

In another fragment, which we quote below, Sappho pictures a spring midnight with almost astronomical exactness. She loves the sun: “I have loved daintiness [from childhood] and for me love possesses the brightness and beauty of the sun.” William Stebbing in his Minstrel of Love expands the two verses into ten, the last “Dazzling my brain with gazing on the Sun.” Sappho knows the golden-sandalled and queenly dawn (E. 19, 177). She wrote an ode to Hesperus, the Evening Star, of which we have only the tantalizing beginning, “fairest of all the stars that shine” (E. 32). Another graceful fragment quoted in antiquity to show the charm of repetition (E. 149)83 on the Evening Star, which comes in Catullus too, has influenced not only Byron in Don Juan but Andrew Lang in Helen of Troy (II. 4) and especially Tennyson (see p. 206). “That Greek blockhead,” as Sir Walter Scott was called, though he knew more Greek than most undergraduate students of Greek to-day, even if he didn’t know the Sappho fragment, expresses the same idea in the Doom of Dever Girl, “All meet whom day and care divide.”

Sappho is fond of birds, the dove, the lovely or heavenly swallow (E. 122), the nightingale. The doves drive Aphrodite’s car in the first ode and in E. 16 “their heart grows light and they slacken the labor of their pinions.” Ben Jonson took from Sappho (E. 138) his line in The Sad Shepherd, “the dear good angel of the spring, The nightingale,” and Swinburne, “The tawny sweet-winged thing Whose cry was but of spring.” A fragment published even since Edmonds’ book speaks of the “clear-voiced nightingales.” She knows exactly what crickets do at noon of a summer’s day. Listen to their song (E. 94), rescued from Alcaeus, to whom Bergk had wrongly ascribed it:

We see the woman also in her love of flowers as well as of birds. Flowers are her favorites and she worships them with almost the modern reverence of the Japanese, whom I have sometimes seen saying their morning prayers to a beautiful bouquet. Take, for example, this simple but pretty flower-picture of Sappho’s (E. 107):

She sympathizes with the hyacinth (E. 151), which the shepherd tramples under foot on the mountain, and uses it in one of the most attractive flower-similes in all literature. Listen to this aubade which has been recently found and very tentatively restored (E. 82). It gives a delightful glimpse also of Sappho’s mÉnage:

Or take this other example of Sappho’s love of flowers which Symonds has expanded into a sonnet too long to quote here. I give Tucker’s new version:

Sappho speaks of the golden pulses (E. 139):

Sappho knows the little and common flowers, the dainty anthrysc and melilot, the violets and the lilies (E. 86, 83, 82), but, like Pindar, she especially loves the rose. Meleager’s garland of song assigned the rose to Sappho. She says in one of the new fragments (E. 83): “with many a garland of violets and sweet roses mingled, you have decked my flowing locks as I stood by your side, and with many a woven necklet made of a hundred blossoms you have adorned my dainty throat.” Philostratus in his Letters (51) says: “Sappho loves the rose and always crowns it with a meed of praise, likening beautiful maidens to it; and she compares it to the bared fore-arms of the Graces.” Fragment E. 68 says: “Hither pure rose-armed Graces, daughters of Zeus.” Sappho’s love of the rose has led earlier collectors of Sappho’s fragments to include among her verses the famous song in praise of the rose quoted by Achilles Tatius in his love romance on Clitophon and Leucippe, which Elizabeth Barrett Browning has translated:

Sappho, however, does mention the roses of Pieria in the famous lines spoken with characteristic teacher’s tone, almost in the manner of Mrs. Poyser. According to Plutarch, in one passage, the verses are addressed to a wealthy woman, in another passage,85 to a woman of no refinement or learning; according to Stobaeus,86 to a woman of no education; probably it was some rich but uncultured Lesbian girl, who would not go to the Lesbian Smith or Vassar or Bryn Mawr:

For another expanded version by Swinburne in his Anactoria I must refer to Wharton. Sappho had known and loved the wee wee maiden Atthis when she was an awkward school girl, but now in the bloom of beauty after a sad parting the fickle Atthis has flitted away to another woman’s college and clean forgotten Sappho for a rival teacher, Andromeda; “I loved you, Atthis, long ago, when my own girlhood was still all flowers, and you—you seemed to me a small ungainly child” (E. 48).87 “So you hate to think of me, Atthis; ’Tis all Andromeda now” (Edmonds).

Lesbus was a land of flowers, of the rose and the violet, “a land rich in corn and oil and wine, in figs and olives, in building-wood and tinted marble,” as Tucker says. But this triangular island (about thirty-five by twenty-five miles) had mountains rising from two to three thousand feet at its corners and two deep fiords on its southern coast. From the northern coast Sappho must often have looked across the short seven miles of laughing sea upon Troyland and thought of the Homeric poems in which Lesbus played such an important rÔle.88 The air like that of Athens as described by Pindar, with a glamor wreathing such cities as Smyrna, was so translucent that in the northeast across the dividing sea many-fountained Ida could easily be seen. It is perhaps an accident that there is so little mention of mountain or sea in Sappho. But she was no “landlubber,” as Professor Allinson would have us believe.89 Pindar and the other lyric poets were acquainted with the sea and so must Sappho have known it, as she daily saw the ships fly in and out of their haven on white wings (cf. first stanza of poem on p. 82). In one of the new fragments (E. 86) we have a marvellous picture of the sea in the last stanza of a poem which otherwise, with its love of flowers, with the beautiful simile of the rosy-fingered moon, is one of the most perfect things in literature. The telepathic and telegraphic sympathy of Sappho startles us and the wireless message sent by night across the severing sea, whose sigh you can hear in the original Greek, anticipates the modern radio.90 As this is a memory poem, and Anactoria, like Hallam, is “lost,” for the time being at least, I have followed as a model Tennyson’s In Memoriam in metre, stanza, and rhyming. The first line seems to be “remembered” in rhyme as it were after the interval during which the second and third lines have been made and rhymed.

This ode alone marks Sappho as a great poetess. The reasons are: (1) the loving notice of little and common flowers, (2) the comparison of Anactoria when surrounded by other women to the moon in the midst of her surrounding stars, the bold personification of the moon secured by the use of the single figure “rosy-fingered,” (3) sudden and masterful survey of land and sea, (4) the successful centering of attention upon Anactoria’s homesickness even in the midst of such far-reaching beauty of land and sea, (5) the remarkably forceful portrayal of what in our day we call thought-transference as seen, for example, in Tennyson’s Aylmer’s Field or Enoch Arden, (6) and not least important, the simplicity and sharpness of outline displayed in the imagery. “Night” is a vague, widely diffused, mystic thing, but Sappho makes us see her a thing of many ears and one of them close to Anactoria’s face. Night does not send a mystic intimation such as Tennyson’s vibration of light might indicate. But she speaks right out in a clear voice that carries far enough to reach across the sea to Sappho. A seventh reason is the strange, hot emotion of love and sorrow and longing that throbs like a pulse in every line and makes the whole letter a living creature. Milton said and lovers of poetry have always agreed that poetry must be simple, sensuous, and passionate. By sensuous he of course meant expressed in images involving the use of the bodily senses. Is there anything in poetry, ancient or modern, that more exactly meets Milton’s requirements than these few lines of Sappho’s letter to her girl friend? Now if this is evident to the reader of an English translation, it is vastly more so to one who knowing the meaning of the words has read them in the Greek and then read them again because they were so sweet, and read them a third time and many times until the music haunts him like the face of a lover. This will rank with Matthew Arnold’s verses To Marguerite in no. 5 of his series of little poems on Switzerland:

Sappho’s last verse also reminds us of Horace’s Oceano dissociabili91 and Tennyson’s “bond-breaking sea.” Fragment E. 41 refers to the mariner at sea in a storm; and E. 66 pictures a beautiful scene on the sea, where “Hector and his comrades bring from sacred Thebe and everflowing Placia, by ship upon the briny sea, the dainty Andromache of the glancing eye.” (Edmonds)

Sappho’s verses are full of color, of bright and beautiful things. She ranks with Pindar in her special devotion to gold, not for its value but for its fine amber lustre and its permanency (E. 110). The Cyprian queen of love sits on a throne of rich color and splendor, with inlaid wood or metal (E. 1); she “dispenses the nectar of love in beakers of gold” in what was perhaps the introductory poem of Sappho’s Wedding-Songs (E. 6):

Aphrodite wears a golden coronal (E. 9), is herself golden (E. 157), and her handmaid is golden-shining (E. 24). The Muses are golden (E. 11), perhaps also the Nereids (E. 36). They have a golden house (E. 129):

The dawn is golden-slippered (E. 19); something or somebody is more golden than gold (E. 60). “Gold is pure of rust” (E. 109); “Gold is a child of Zeus; no moth nor worm devours it; and it overcomes the strongest of mortal hearts” (E. 110).92 Sappho’s daughter CleÏs looks like a golden flower (E. 130); “Golden pulse grew on the shore” (E. 139, cf. O’Hara’s poem Golden Pulse). One of many fragments of interest to the student of Greek life and antiquities speaks of “gold-knuckle bowls” (E. 191).93 Sappho was cited by Menaechmus of Sicyon in his Treatise on Artists as the first to use a lyre called the pectis, and she invented the Mixo-Lydian mode, particularly sensual or emotional, which the Greek tragedians copied from her.

Sappho makes allusions to children which are natural and tender (E. 130). In similes she uses children simply and directly as in The Ode to Hesperus (E. 149) and in the verse, which may refer to a sparrow and which Catullus imitated, “I flutter like a child after her mother” (E. 142).

Sappho from her tender years was inured to the sorrows as well as the joys of love. Two of her fragments (E. 111, 135), the first perhaps a complete poem, represent the loneliness of a long night spent in vain waiting for a lover. Cipollini (1890) and others have often set these to music. They are popular ballads which Sappho must have used just as Burns did in writing Auld Lang Syne. As Tucker says: “It is probable that she is setting one such prehistoric lyrical idea to new words or recasting one such vagrom ditty.” He is thinking, I imagine, of such a Scottish ballad as:

There are a score of versions in Italian, some far from Sappho, and Ronsard’s good French version; and many an American or English poet has tried his hand at translating the lines,94 which in the Greek toll like a curfew bell. All too little known is the rendering by Alan Seeger, the poet who was killed in battle on July 4, 1916, in his poem, Do You Remember Once?

For the Greek silence of nature Seeger substitutes the sympathy of nature in the moaning of the night winds. A more literal translation is:

Sappho’s verses are purer, simpler than the frank poem of Hester Bancroft on an August Night:95

The other popular song about a girl in love, in a metre which Horace imitated in the twelfth ode of the third book, is as imaginative a description as anything in Coleridge or Keats with whom the Maryland poet, Father Tabb, so aptly compares Sappho. It reminds one of Gretchen’s weaving-song in Faust, and of the English folk-song, “O mother, put my wheel away; I cannot spin to-night.” It is beautifully translated by Thomas Moore, in his Evenings in Greece:

Many fragments deal with the Greek myths. Sappho is one of the first to tell the story of Adonis, who has his analogy in Phaon. “Woe for Adonis” (E. 25); “Woe for him of the four months’ sojourn, Woe for Adonis” (E. 136 uncertain restoration). Another fragment is presumed to be Sappho’s and, probably, to be part of a song sung at the Mytilenaean spring-festival of the marriage of Adonis and Aphrodite, of whose counterpart at Alexandria we have an example in the fifteenth idyl of Theocritus, so well translated by Matthew Arnold:

O’Hara, Bliss Carman, and many another have expanded this lament for Adonis which we know so well from Bion’s Lament for Adonis and from Shelley’s Adonais. I quote the poet laureate of Canada:

Sappho’s knowledge of literature and legend is also not little. She is well acquainted with Homer, who very much influenced Sappho’s language. She knows Helen (E. 38) and her daughter Hermione (E. 44); “Hermione was never such as you are, and just it is to liken you rather to Helen than to a mortal maid.” Or take this complete letter to Anactoria (E. 38), who has eloped with a soldier to Sardis, as beautiful a poem as any of Sappho’s, if not spoiled in the last stanza by the wrong restoration of some scholars. The news of its discovery caused Mr. Osborn to leap out of bed and say he would fight for Sappho to the last with a pen dipt in poison. It reminds one of The Song of Solomon I. 9, “I have compared thee, O my love, to a company of horses in Pharaoh’s chariots,” or VI. 10, “Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners?” Osborn, Mark Telfair, Marion Mills Miller, T. E. R., and others178 have given poetic versions in Sapphics of this new poem. Another rendering seems superfluous, but I could not resist the pleasure of adding it, even though in the main less happy than its predecessors. In some of the lines the love of far-off Sappho’s meaning has lured me astray from the nearer English anapaest:

Agamemnon is mentioned in one of the new fragments (tentatively restored E. 85), which is an especially beautiful dialogue between Sappho and her dumpling pupil Gongyla, which might be called Intimations of Immortality:

Sappho knows the story of Leda and the egg. Edmonds (E. 97) reads a new text: “They say that once upon a time Leda found hidden an egg of hyacinthine hue.” But I prefer the older, better version, which O’Hara renders:

Sappho makes a sarcastic reference to Leto and Niobe as very dear comrades (E. 140), and gives Niobe nine children of either sex (E. 168). She knows the love of the Moon for Endymion in the cave on Mt. Latmus (E. 167); she wrote about Theseus (E. 169), Prometheus (E. 170), Medea (E. 185), and Philomela and Procne, “the heavenly swallow, Pandion’s daughter” (E. 122). Perhaps Sappho pictured the story of Hero and Leander (cf. p. 31). Stebbing changes the sex of Hero and makes a long poem on Champion, Athlete, and Harpist:

The divinities in Sappho are primarily Aphrodite, Peitho, Ares, Hecate, Hera, Hermes, Hephaestus, and the Muses. There is much reverence in the beautiful Hymn to Hera, the latter half of which Edmonds (E. 40) has so very tentatively restored on the hypothesis that this was written in Syracuse before Sappho embarked to return to Mytilene on hearing of the amnesty of Pittacus.

Sappho was not only the poet of ardent love, as we have seen, but the greatest composer of wedding-songs of antiquity, and much of such poetry in later days is nothing but a translation or a transfusion of Sappho. Her Epithalamia were written for actual wedding ceremonies, but I cannot agree with a great German critic who says that they were not literary productions. I do not mean to say that she published these songs, for I believe that they were not collected into a ninth book until later days. We have already quoted what may be an introductory poem to the Epithalamies; perhaps even some of the other fragments which we have mentioned, such as that perfect weaving-song, which may reflect the awakening of love in the heart of the bride, and certainly the verses on the Evening Star (p. 64) belong to her Epithalamies. The wonderful new poem (E. 66) with its Homeric genitives and datives and its Homeric forms of words on the Marriage of Hector and Andromache could be used as a wedding-song at any wedding:

I do not feel that this poem was cold and superficial as Miss De Courten and some other critics say, for to me it is a dignified and simple epic narrative, like the messengers’ speeches in Greek tragedy, introduced into the midst of lyrics. It is almost perfect and well worthy of Sappho. It makes us realize that Sappho’s activity was broader than we had supposed and brings her nearer to her predecessors and successors. It is a unique example, hitherto unknown, of a lyric narrative with epic intonations, throwing new light on the history of the ancient wedding-songs.96

A rhetorician of the fourth century A.D., Himerius,97 has an interesting passage which bears on Sappho’s wedding-songs and helps us interpret the fragments which are preserved:

Himerius refers to the mock contests which were a part of the wedding ceremonies. There was always an agon or sham fight, as in Greek comedy, running through the hymenaeal, to be succeeded in many cases by a real fight afterwards. The wedding echoed with noise which suggested the conflicts of prehistoric days when brides were captives of bow and spear, and all sorts of characters figured in this drama of real life. There was place for satire and ridicule as well as for praise. Even in recent years I have witnessed in a neighboring island, “Scio’s rocky isle,” the semblance of predatory warfare which the Chians keep up during their bridal ceremonies. And in 1902 I attended a three days’ Turkish wedding at Chiblak, near the site of ancient Troy. On that occasion the frequent shooting and fighting, which resulted even in injuries to Turks and Greeks, made the noisy ceremony seem like a battle. In Sappho’s day, as to-day in the Orient, a wedding was not a brief benedictory reading by a clergyman. It was a long-drawn celebration, a prolonged process rather than a precise pronouncement, with torchlight processions, dance, and song.98 All these features emerge very clearly in Sappho, where we can trace the whole ceremony from the weaving of the bridal bower (pastas = portico or bower in Himerius as cited above) to the aubade song of the next morning. Here is the charming song, sung, in the same metre as the famous Linus Song, by the bridesmaids as they led the bride to the bridegroom’s bed, proud of their island and of their Sappho:99

Then follows a kind of lyrical marriage drama, the bridesmaids representing the tribe of the bride, the youths the clan of the bridegroom, in this respect foreshadowing Catullus’ double choir. The maidens answer the young men’s praise by chiding Hesperus, the evening star, whose coming heralds the union. The young men in turn reply with the famous words already quoted, to which the sequel probably was “even so bring home the bride to the bridegroom.” We think of Edmund Spenser’s Prothalamion and Epithalamion which have many of the motives of the Greek epithalamium, with their reference to Hesper, with their beautiful descriptions of bride and bridegroom. I quote the lines about Hymen, which is Sappho’s Greek refrain, rendered by the word “wedding” in Edmonds’ version:

The men praise marriage bliss; the maidens, virginity (E. 152, “I shall be ever-maiden,” E. 159, “Can it be that I still long for my virginity?”). The bride says, “Maidenhead, maidenhead, whither away?” and the reply is, “Where I must stay, bride, where I must stay” (E. 164)100; a wonderful example of the way in which Sappho treats abstractions and inanimate things (cf. also E. 80, “Up, my lute divine and make thyself a thing of speech”). Sappho is the first to use such a personification101 and it recalls ThÉophile Gautier in his reverse application in Mademoiselle de Maupin. At least it is difficult to think of the young Gautier independently conceiving the striking figure that is so characteristic of the genius of the Lesbian poetess. This is the Frenchman’s passage. It describes the fair heroine going out into the world dressed in masculine habiliments to test men’s fidelity in love:

In amoebean or antiphonic hexameter verses (E. 150 and 151), as exquisite as Heine’s Du bist wie eine Blume, the maidens liken the virgin state to the unplucked pippin, the married woman to the hyacinth or columbine, with which Aphrodite is also adorned in the passage from Himerius. As Tucker says: “a band of girls mock the men with failure to win some dainty maiden, and the men reply with a taunt at the neglected bloom of the unprofitable virgin. Say the maids (Pl. 9):

Reply the men:

and there unhappily the record deserts us.” These lovely lines are about as well known as anything of Sappho’s, owing to Rossetti’s adaptation in his One Girl, a title altered in 1881 to Beauty, which the reader can find in Wharton. In modern times, Maurice Thompson, Gamaliel Bradford, and others have been influenced by them, though often an un-Sapphic touch not in Sappho’s verses is given, as in Bradford’s Topmost Bough:

The bridegroom now bears off the bride while the chorus of youths praise the bride and the chorus of maidens the bridegroom:

But as to-day the bridegroom disappears in the society column of the newspaper behind the splendor of the elaborate description of the bride’s gown, so in Sappho the praise of the bride is far sweeter than that of the bridegroom. Recall the lines of Rossetti and these verses in the metre of one of Catullus’ epithalamia:

Congratulations were offered also to the bridegroom:

Himerius seems to be quoting such a song of greeting to bride and bridegroom: “Bride that teemest with rosy desires, bride the fairest ornament of the Queen of Paphos, hie thee to bed, hie thee to the couch whereon thou must sweetly sport in gentle wise with thy bridegroom. And may the Star of Eve lead thee full willingly to the place where thou shalt marvel at the silver-thronÈd Lady of Wedlock” (Edmonds). Himerius also tells us that Sappho “brings Aphrodite in her Grace-drawn car with a bevy of Loves” to the wedding. And the joy of the earthly festival is repeated far up among the clouds of Olympus where the celestial feast is described (E. 146) in verses the lilt of which Professor Gildersleeve has thus reproduced in his unpublished version:

Stebbing in his Friends of Man has the Gods descend to the modest hall wherein the marriage feast is spread.

The function of what we Americans used to call the first groomsman, in the primitive times of wife-stealing, was to protect the bridegroom from pursuit and the name “best man” perpetuates the tradition. In the Greek wedding, where the passing and closing of the door was so essential a part of the ritual, he was the door-keeper, and there was much bantering and chaffing at his personal appearance on the part of the maidens, who made much use of the same jokes which have since been applied to the feet of maidens of Chicago. The feet of the porter were put in the laughing stocks somewhat after this fashion (E. 154):

to which Edmonds would make the ingenious but doubtful addition based on Synesius “[and his father lived in other ways an honest life, but claimed to be better born than Cecrops].” The door is shut and the mocking subsides, as all chant for the groom, “Happy bridegroom, the marriage is accomplished, as you prayed it should be, and the maiden you prayed for is yours” (E. 155); and for the bride they sing, “O beauteous one, O lovely one, thine it is to sport with the rose-ankled Graces and Aphrodite the golden” (E. 157). If Edmonds’ tentative restoration of the end of the first book of 1320 verses is correct, “the maidens spend all the night at this door, singing of the love that is between thee, thrice happy bridegroom, and a bride whose breast is sweet as violets. But get thee up and go when the dawn shall come, and may great Hermes lead thy feet where thou shalt find just so much ill-luck as we shall see sleep to-night” (E. 47). Evidently the maidens saw little sleep that night, but finally silence falls and in the early dawn is heard the last song of the serenaders: “Farewell the bride, farewell the bridegroom” (E. 160, 162).

This chapter should not close without a mention of the epigrams. Many have been attributed to Sappho, but three especially (E. 143, 144, 145) have been included in most of the translations. They are, however, written in normal epic language without any essential traces of Sappho’s Aeolic dialect. One, which Wilamowitz would date as late as 400 B.C., according to Edmonds was inscribed on the base of a statue of a nameless infant, dedicated to Artemis in gratitude for her birth by her priestess-mother. I prefer the older interpretation:

The epigram on the fisherman (E. 145) is most unlike Sappho. Fawkes, Elton, Neaves, and many a modern poet have put it into verse:102

The two elegiac couplets on The Dust of Timas, who died before her wedding day, are rather flat and hardly worthy of Sappho’s genius (E. 144); but if Edmonds’ restoration of one of Sappho’s fragments as referring to Timas is correct (p. 60 above), it may be genuine and in that case one of the very few surviving early metrical epitaphs. I give you the recent rendering by one of our best modern American poets, Edwin Arlington Robinson: