Where a sight shall shuddering Sorrow find. Sad as the ruins of the human mind!
BOWLES.
ELINOR.
(Time, Morning. Scene, the Shore.[1])
Once more to daily toil—once more to wear The weeds of infamy—from every joy The heart can feel excluded, I arise Worn out and faint with unremitting woe; And once again with wearied steps I trace The hollow-sounding shore. The swelling waves Gleam to the morning sun, and dazzle o'er With many a splendid hue the breezy strand. Oh there was once a time when ELINOR Gazed on thy opening beam with joyous eye Undimm'd by guilt and grief! when her full soul Felt thy mild radiance, and the rising day Waked but to pleasure! on thy sea-girt verge Oft England! have my evening steps stole on, Oft have mine eyes surveyed the blue expanse, And mark'd the wild wind swell the ruffled surge, And seen the upheaved billows bosomed rage Rush on the rock; and then my timid soul Shrunk at the perils of the boundless deep, And heaved a sigh for suffering mariners. Ah! little deeming I myself was doom'd. To tempt the perils of the boundless deep, An Outcast—unbeloved and unbewail'd.
Why stern Remembrance! must thine iron hand Harrow my soul? why calls thy cruel power The fields of England to my exil'd eyes, The joys which once were mine? even now I see The lowly lovely dwelling! even now Behold the woodbine clasping its white walls And hear the fearless red-breasts chirp around To ask their morning meal:—for I was wont With friendly band to give their morning meal, Was wont to love their song, when lingering morn Streak'd o'er the chilly landskip the dim light, And thro' the open'd lattice hung my head To view the snow-drop's bud: and thence at eve When mildly fading sunk the summer sun, Oft have I loved to mark the rook's slow course And hear his hollow croak, what time he sought The church-yard elm, whose wide-embowering boughs Full foliaged, half conceal'd the house of God. There, my dead father! often have I heard Thy hallowed voice explain the wonderous works Of Heaven to sinful man. Ah! little deem'd Thy virtuous bosom, that thy shameless child So soon should spurn the lesson! sink the slave Of Vice and Infamy! the hireling prey Of brutal appetite! at length worn out With famine, and the avenging scourge of guilt, Should dare dishonesty—yet dread to die!
Welcome ye savage lands, ye barbarous climes, Where angry England sends her outcast sons— I hail your joyless shores! my weary bark Long tempest-tost on Life's inclement sea, Here hails her haven! welcomes the drear scene, The marshy plain, the briar-entangled wood, And all the perils of a world unknown. For Elinor has nothing new to fear From fickle Fortune! all her rankling shafts Barb'd with disgrace, and venom'd with disease. Have pierced my bosom, and the dart of death Has lost its terrors to a wretch like me.
Welcome ye marshy heaths! ye pathless woods, Where the rude native rests his wearied frame Beneath the sheltering shade; where, when the storm, As rough and bleak it rolls along the sky, Benumbs his naked limbs, he flies to seek The dripping shelter. Welcome ye wild plains Unbroken by the plough, undelv'd by hand Of patient rustic; where for lowing herds, And for the music of the bleating flocks, Alone is heard the kangaroo's sad note Deepening in distance. Welcome ye rude climes, The realm of Nature! for as yet unknown The crimes and comforts of luxurious life, Nature benignly gives to all enough, Denies to all a superfluity, What tho' the garb of infamy I wear, Tho' day by day along the echoing beach I cull the wave-worn shells, yet day by day I earn in honesty my frugal food, And lay me down at night to calm repose. No more condemn'd the mercenary tool Of brutal lust, while heaves the indignant heart With Virtue's stiffled sigh, to fold my arms Round the rank felon, and for daily bread To hug contagion to my poison'd breast; On these wild shores Repentance' saviour hand Shall probe my secret soul, shall cleanse its wounds And fit the faithful penitent for Heaven.
[Footnote 1: The female convicts are frequently employed in collecting shells for the purpose of making lime.]
HUMPHREY and WILLIAM.
(Time, Noon.)
HUMPHREY:
See'st thou not William that the scorching Sun By this time half his daily race has run? The savage thrusts his light canoe to shore And hurries homeward with his fishy store. Suppose we leave awhile this stubborn soil To eat our dinner and to rest from toil!
WILLIAM:
Agreed. Yon tree whose purple gum bestows A ready medicine for the sick-man's woes, Forms with its shadowy boughs a cool retreat To shield us from the noontide's sultry heat. Ah Humphrey! now upon old England's shore The weary labourer's morning work is o'er: The woodman now rests from his measur'd stroke Flings down his axe and sits beneath the oak, Savour'd with hunger there he eats his food, There drinks the cooling streamlet of the wood. To us no cooling streamlet winds its way, No joys domestic crown for us the day, The felon's name, the outcast's garb we wear, Toil all the day, and all the night despair.
HUMPHREY:
Ah William! labouring up the furrowed ground I used to love the village clock's dull sound, Rejoice to hear my morning toil was done, And trudge it homewards when the clock went one. 'Twas ere I turn'd a soldier and a sinner! Pshaw! curse this whining—let us fall to dinner.
WILLIAM:
I too have loved this hour, nor yet forgot Each joy domestic of my little cot. For at this hour my wife with watchful care Was wont each humbler dainty to prepare, The keenest sauce by hunger was supplied And my poor children prattled at my side. Methinks I see the old oak table spread, The clean white trencher and the good brown bread, The cheese my daily food which Mary made, For Mary knew full well the housewife's trade: The jug of cyder,—cyder I could make, And then the knives—I won 'em at the wake. Another has them now! I toiling here Look backward like a child and drop a tear.
HUMPHREY:
I love a dismal story, tell me thine, Meantime, good Will, I'll listen as I dine. I too my friend can tell a piteous story When I turn'd hero how I purchas'd glory.
WILLIAM:
But Humphrey, sure thou never canst have known The comforts of a little home thine own: A home so snug, So chearful too as mine, 'Twas always clean, and we could make it fine; For there King Charles's golden rules were seen, And there—God bless 'em both—the King and Queen. The pewter plates our garnish'd chimney grace So nicely scour'd, you might have seen your face; And over all, to frighten thieves, was hung Well clean'd, altho' but seldom us'd, my gun. Ah! that damn'd gun! I took it down one morn— A desperate deal of harm they did my corn! Our testy Squire too loved to save the breed, So covey upon covey eat my seed. I mark'd the mischievous rogues, and took my aim, I fir'd, they fell, and—up the keeper came. That cursed morning brought on my undoing, I went to prison and my farm to ruin. Poor Mary! for her grave the parish paid, No tomb-stone tells where her cold corpse is laid! My children—my dear boys—
HUMPHREY:
Come—Grief is dry— You to your dinner—to my story I. To you my friend who happier days have known And each calm comfort of a home your own, This is bad living: I have spent my life In hardest toil and unavailing strife, And here (from forest ambush safe at least) To me this scanty pittance seems a feast. I was a plough-boy once; as free from woes And blithesome as the lark with whom I rose. Each evening at return a meal I found And, tho' my bed was hard, my sleep was sound. One Whitsuntide, to go to fair, I drest Like a great bumkin in my Sunday's best; A primrose posey in my hat I stuck And to the revel went to try my luck. From show to show, from booth to booth I stray, See stare and wonder all the live-long day. A Serjeant to the fair recruiting came Skill'd in man-catching to beat up for game; Our booth he enter'd and sat down by me;— Methinks even now the very scene I see! The canvass roof, the hogshead's running store, The old blind fiddler seated next the door, The frothy tankard passing to and fro And the rude rabble round the puppet-show; The Serjeant eyed me well—the punch-bowl comes, And as we laugh'd and drank, up struck the drums— And now he gives a bumper to his Wench— God save the King, and then—God damn the French. Then tells the story of his last campaign. How many wounded and how many slain, Flags flying, cannons roaring, drums a-beating, The English marching on, the French retreating,— "Push on—push on my lads! they fly before ye, "March on to riches, happiness and glory!" At first I wonder'd, by degrees grew bolder, Then cried—"tis a fine thing to be a soldier!" "Aye Humphrey!" says the Serjeant—"that's your name? "'Tis a fine thing to fight the French for fame! "March to the field—knock out a Mounseer's brains "And pick the scoundrel's pocket for your pains. "Come Humphrey come! thou art a lad of spirit! "Rise to a halbert—as I did—by merit! "Would'st thou believe it? even I was once "As thou art now, a plough-boy and a dunce; "But Courage rais'd me to my rank. How now boy! "Shall Hero Humphrey still be Numps the plough-boy? "A proper shaped young fellow! tall and straight! "Why thou wert made for glory! five feet eight! "The road to riches is the field of fight,— "Didst ever see a guinea look so bright? "Why regimentals Numps would give thee grace, "A hat and feather would become that face; "The girls would crowd around thee to be kist— "Dost love a girl?" "Od Zounds!" I cried "I'll list!" So past the night: anon the morning came, And off I set a volunteer for fame. "Back shoulders, turn out your toes, hold up your head, "Stand easy!" so I did—till almost dead. Oh how I long'd to tend the plough again Trudge up the field and whistle o'er the plain, When tir'd and sore amid the piteous throng Hungry and cold and wet I limp'd along, And growing fainter as I pass'd and colder, Curs'd that ill hour when I became a soldier! In town I found the hours more gayly pass And Time fled swiftly with my girl and glass; The girls were wonderous kind and wonderous fair, They soon transferred me to the Doctor's care, The Doctor undertook to cure the evil, And he almost transferred me to the Devil. 'Twere tedious to relate the dismal story Of fighting, fasting, wretchedness and glory. At last discharg'd, to England's shores I came Paid for my wounds with want instead of fame, Found my fair friends and plunder'd as they bade me, They kist me, coax'd me, robb'd me and betray'd me. Tried and condemn'd his Majesty transports me, And here in peace, I thank him, he supports me, So ends my dismal and heroic story And Humphrey gets more good from guilt than glory.
JOHN, SAMUEL, & RICHARD.
(Time, Evening.)
JOHN.
'Tis a calm pleasant evening, the light fades away, And the Sun going down has done watch for the day. To my mind we live wonderous well when transported, It is but to work and we must be supported. Fill the cann, Dick! success here to Botany Bay!
RICHARD.
Success if you will,—but God send me away.
JOHN.
Ah! you lubberly landsmen don't know when you're well; Hadst thou known half the hardships of which I can tell! The sailor has no place of safety in store— From the tempest at sea, to the press-gang on shore! When Roguery rules all the rest of the earth, God be thanked in this corner I've got a good birth. Talk of hardships! what these are the sailor don't know! 'Tis the soldier my friend that's acquainted with woe, Long journeys, short halting, hard work and small pay, To be popt at like pidgeons for sixpence a day!— Thank God! I'm safe quarter'd at Botany Bay.
JOHN:
Ah! you know but little! I'll wager a pot I have suffer'd more evils than fell to your lot. Come we'll have it all fairly and properly tried, Tell story for story, and Dick shall decide.
SAMUEL:
Done.
JOHN:
Done. 'Tis a wager and I shall be winner; Thou wilt go without grog Sam to-morrow at dinner.
SAMUEL:
I was trapp'd by the Serjeant's palavering pretences, He listed me when I was out of my senses. So I took leave to-day of all care and all sorrow And was drill'd to repentance and reason to-morrow.
JOHN:
I would be a sailor and plough the wide ocean, And was soon sick and sad with the billow's commotion. So the Captain he sent me aloft on the mast, And curs'd me, and bid me cry there—and hold fast!
SAMUEL:
After marching all day, faint and hungry and sore, I have lain down at night on the swamps of the moor, Unshelter'd and forced by fatigue to remain. All chill'd by the wind and benumb'd by the rain.
JOHN:
I have rode out the storm when the billows beat high And the red gleaming lightnings flash'd thro' the dark sky, When the tempest of night the black sea overcast Wet and weary I labour'd, yet sung to the blast.
SAMUEL:
I have march'd, trumpets sounding—drums beating—flags flying, Where the music of war drown'd the shrieks of the dying, When the shots whizz'd around me all dangers defied, Push'd on when my comrades fell dead at my side, Drove the foe from the mouth of the Cannon away, Fought, conquer'd and bled, all for sixpence a day.
JOHN:
And I too friend Samuel! have heard the shots rattle, But we seamen rejoice in the play of the battle; Tho' the chain and the grape-shot roll splintering around, With the blood of our messmates tho' slippery the ground, The fiercer the fight, still the fiercer we grow, We heed not our loss so we conquer the foe. And the hard battle won, so the prize be not sunk, The Captain gets rich, and the Sailors get drunk.
SAMUEL:
God help the poor soldier when backward he goes In disgraceful retreat thro' a country of foes! No respite from danger by day or by night He is still forced to fly, still o'ertaken to fight, Every step that he takes he must battle his way, He must force his hard meal from the peasant away; No rest—and no hope, from all succour afar, God forgive the poor Soldier for going to the war!
JOHN:
But what are these dangers to those I have past When the dark billows roar'd to the roar of the blast? When we work'd at the pumps worn with labour and weak And with dread still beheld the increase of the leak, Sometimes as we rose on the wave could our sight From the rocks of the shore catch the light-houses light; In vain to the beach to assist us they press, We fire faster and faster our guns of distress, Still with rage unabating the wind and waves roar— How the giddy wreck reels—as the billows burst o'er— Leap—leap—for she yawns—for she sinks in the wave— Call on God to preserve—for God only can save!
SAMUEL:
There's an end of all troubles however at last! And when I in the waggon of wounded was cast, When my wounds with the chilly night-wind smarted sore And I thought of the friends I should never see more, No hand to relieve—scarce a morsel of bread— Sick at heart I have envied the peace of the dead! Left to rot in a jail till by treaty set free, Old England's white cliffs with what joy did I see! I had gain'd enough glory, some wounds, but no good, And was turn'd on the public to shift how I could. When I think what I've suffer'd and where I am now I curse him who snared me away from the plough.
JOHN:
When I was discharged I went home to my wife, There in comfort to spend all the rest of my life. My wife was industrious, we earn'd what we spent, And tho' little we had, were with little content; And whenever I listen'd and heard the wind roar, I bless'd God for my little snug cabin on shore. At midnight they seiz'd me, they dragg'd me away, They wounded me sore when I would not obey, And because for my country I'd ventur'd my life, I was dragg'd like a thief from my home and my wife. Then the fair wind of Fortune chopp'd round in my face And Want at length drove me to guilt and disgrace— But all's for the best;—on the world's wide sea cast, I am haven'd in peace in this corner at last.
SAMUEL:
Come Dick! we have done—and for judgment we call.
RICHARD:
And in faith I can give ye no judgment at all. I've been listening to all the hard labours you've past And think in plain troth, you're two blockheads at last. My lads where the Deuce was the wit which God gave ye When you sold yourselves first to the army or navy? By land and by sea hunting dangers to roam, When you might have been hang'd so much easier at home! But you're now snug and settled and safe from foul weather, So drink up your grog and be merry together.
FREDERIC.
(Time Night. Scene the woods.)
Where shall I turn me? whither shall I bend My weary way? thus worn with toil and faint How thro' the thorny mazes of this wood Attain my distant dwelling? that deep cry That rings along the forest seems to sound My parting knell: it is the midnight howl Of hungry monsters prowling for their prey! Again! oh save me—save me gracious Heaven! I am not fit to die! Thou coward wretch Why heaves thy trembling heart? why shake thy limbs Beneath their palsied burden? is there ought So lovely in existence? would'st thou drain Even to its dregs the bitter draught of life? Dash down the loathly bowl! poor outcast slave Stamp'd with the brand of Vice and Infamy Why should the villain Frederic shrink from Death?
Death! where the magic in that empty name That chills my inmost heart? why at the thought Starts the cold dew of fear on every limb? There are no terrors to surround the Grave, When the calm Mind collected in itself Surveys that narrow house: the ghastly train That haunt the midnight of delirious Guilt Then vanish; in that home of endless rest All sorrows cease.—Would I might slumber there!
Why then this panting of the fearful heart? This miser love of Life that dreads to lose Its cherish'd torment? shall the diseased man Yield up his members to the surgeon's knife, Doubtful of succour, but to ease his frame Of fleshly anguish, and the coward wretch, Whose ulcered soul can know no human help Shrink from the best Physician's certain aid? Oh it were better far to lay me down Here on this cold damp earth, till some wild beast Seize on his willing victim!
If to die Were all, it were most sweet to rest my head On the cold clod, and sleep the sleep of Death. But if the Archangel's trump at the last hour Startle the ear of Death and wake the soul To frenzy!—dreams of infancy! fit tales For garrulous beldames to affrighten babes! I have been guilty, yet my mind can bear The retrospect of guilt, yet in the hour Of deep contrition to THE ETERNAL look For mercy! for the child of Poverty, And "disinherited of happiness,"
What if I warr'd upon the world? the world Had wrong'd me first: I had endur'd the ills Of hard injustice; all this goodly earth Was but to me one wild waste wilderness; I had no share in Nature's patrimony, Blasted were all my morning hopes of Youth, Dark DISAPPOINTMENT follow'd on my ways, CARE was my bosom inmate, and keen WANT Gnaw'd at my heart. ETERNAL ONE thou know'st How that poor heart even in the bitter hour Of lewdest revelry has inly yearn'd For peace!
My FATHER! I will call on thee, Pour to thy mercy seat my earnest prayer, And wait thy peace in bowedness of soul. Oh thoughts of comfort! how the afflicted heart, Tired with the tempest of its passions, rests On you with holy hope! the hollow howl Of yonder harmless tenant of the woods Bursts not with terror on the sober'd sense. If I have sinn'd against mankind, on them Be that past sin; they made me what I was. In these extremest climes can Want no more Urge to the deeds of darkness, and at length Here shall I rest. What tho' my hut be poor— The rains descend not thro' its humble roof: Would I were there again! the night is cold; And what if in my wanderings I should rouse The savage from his thicket!
Hark! the gun! And lo—the fire of safety! I shall reach My little hut again! again by toil Force from the stubborn earth my sustenance, And quick-ear'd guilt will never start alarm'd Amid the well-earn'd meal. This felon's garb— Will it not shield me from the winds of Heaven? And what could purple more? Oh strengthen me Eternal One in this serener state! Cleanse thou mine heart, so PENITENCE and FAITH Shall heal my soul and my last days be peace.
Sonnets
SONNET I.
Go Valentine and tell that lovely maid Whom Fancy still will pourtray to my sight, How her Bard lingers in this sullen shade, This dreary gloom of dull monastic night. Say that from every joy of life remote At evening's closing hour he quits the throng, Listening alone the ring-dove's plaintive note Who pours like him her solitary song. Say that her absence calls the sorrowing sigh, Say that of all her charms he loves to speak, In fancy feels the magic of her eye, In fancy views the smile illume her cheek, Courts the lone hour when Silence stills the grove And heaves the sigh of Memory and of Love.
SONNET II.
Think Valentine, as speeding on thy way Homeward thou hastest light of heart along, If heavily creep on one little day The medley crew of travellers among, Think on thine absent friend: reflect that here On Life's sad journey comfortless he roves, Remote from every scene his heart holds dear, From him he values, and from her he loves. And when disgusted with the vain and dull Whom chance companions of thy way may doom, Thy mind, of each domestic comfort full, Turns to itself and meditates on home, Ah think what Cares must ache within his breast Who loaths the lingering road, yet has no home of rest!
SONNET III.
Not to thee Bedford mournful is the tale Of days departed. Time in his career Arraigns not thee that the neglected year Has past unheeded onward. To the vale Of years thou journeyest. May the future road Be pleasant as the past! and on my friend Friendship and Love, best blessings! still attend, 'Till full of days he reach the calm abode Where Nature slumbers. Lovely is the age Of Virtue. With such reverence we behold The silver hairs, as some grey oak grown old That whilome mock'd the rushing tempest's rage Now like the monument of strength decayed With rarely-sprinkled leaves casting a trembling shade.
SONNET IV.
What tho' no sculptur'd monument proclaim Thy fate-yet Albert in my breast I bear Inshrin'd the sad remembrance; yet thy name Will fill my throbbing bosom. When DESPAIR The child of murdered HOPE, fed on thy heart, Loved honored friend, I saw thee sink forlorn Pierced to the soul by cold Neglect's keen dart, And Penury's hard ills, and pitying Scorn, And the dark spectre of departed JOY Inhuman MEMORY. Often on thy grave Love I the solitary hour to employ Thinking on other days; and heave the sigh Responsive, when I mark the high grass wave Sad sounding as the cold breeze rustles by.
SONNET V.
Hard by the road, where on that little mound The high grass rustles to the passing breeze, The child of Misery rests her head in peace. Pause there in sadness. That unhallowed ground Inshrines what once was Isabel. Sleep on Sleep on, poor Outcast! lovely was thy cheek, And thy mild eye was eloquent to speak The soul of Pity. Pale and woe-begone Soon did thy fair cheek fade, and thine eye weep The tear of anguish for the babe unborn, The helpless heir of Poverty and Scorn. She drank the draught that chill'd her soul to sleep. I pause and wipe the big drop from mine eye, Whilst the proud Levite scowls and passes by.
SONNET VI to a brook near the village of Corston.
As thus I bend me o'er thy babbling stream And watch thy current, Memory's hand pourtrays The faint form'd scenes of the departed days, Like the far forest by the moon's pale beam Dimly descried yet lovely. I have worn Upon thy banks the live-long hour away, When sportive Childhood wantoned thro' the day, Joy'd at the opening splendour of the morn, Or as the twilight darken'd, heaved the sigh Thinking of distant home; as down my cheek At the fond thought slow stealing on, would speak The silent eloquence of the full eye. Dim are the long past days, yet still they please As thy soft sounds half heard, borne on the inconstant breeze.
SONNET VII to the evening rainbow.
Mild arch of promise! on the evening sky Thou shinest fair with many a lovely ray Each in the other melting. Much mine eye Delights to linger on thee; for the day, Changeful and many-weather'd, seem'd to smile Flashing brief splendor thro' its clouds awhile, That deepen'd dark anon and fell in rain: But pleasant is it now to pause, and view Thy various tints of frail and watery hue, And think the storm shall not return again. Such is the smile that Piety bestows On the good man's pale cheek, when he in peace Departing gently from a world of woes, Anticipates the realm where sorrows cease.
SONNET VIII.
With many a weary step, at length I gain Thy summit, Lansdown; and the cool breeze plays, Gratefully round my brow, as hence the gaze Returns to dwell upon the journeyed plain. 'Twas a long way and tedious! to the eye Tho fair the extended vale, and fair to view The falling leaves of many a faded hue, That eddy in the wild gust moaning by. Even so it fared with Life! in discontent Restless thro' Fortune's mingled scenes I went, Yet wept to think they would return no more! But cease fond heart in such sad thoughts to roam, For surely thou ere long shall reach thy home, And pleasant is the way that lies before.
SONNET IX.
Fair is the rising morn when o'er the sky The orient sun expands his roseate ray, And lovely to the Bard's enthusiast eye Fades the meek radiance of departing day; But fairer is the smile of one we love, Than all the scenes in Nature's ample sway. And sweeter than the music of the grove, The voice that bids us welcome. Such delight EDITH! is mine, escaping to thy sight From the hard durance of the empty throng. Too swiftly then towards the silent night Ye Hours of happiness! ye speed along, Whilst I, from all the World's cold cares apart, Pour out the feelings of my burthen'd heart.
SONNET X.
How darkly o'er yon far-off mountain frowns The gather'd tempest! from that lurid cloud The deep-voiced thunders roll, aweful and loud Tho' distant; while upon the misty downs Fast falls in shadowy streaks the pelting rain. I never saw so terrible a storm! Perhaps some way-worn traveller in vain Wraps his torn raiment round his shivering form Cold even as Hope within him! I the while Pause me in sadness tho' the sunbeams smile Cheerily round me. Ah that thus my lot Might be with Peace and Solitude assign'd, Where I might from some little quiet cot, Sigh for the crimes and miseries of mankind!
Sappho.
A MONODRAMA.
Argument.
To leap from the promontory of LEUCADIA was believed by the Greeks to be a remedy for hopeless love, if the self-devoted victim escaped with life. Artemisia lost her life in the dangerous experiment: and Sappho is said thus to have perished, in attempting to cure her passion for Phaon.
SAPPHO
(Scene the promontory of Leucadia.)
This is the spot:—'tis here Tradition says That hopeless Love from this high towering rock Leaps headlong to Oblivion or to Death. Oh 'tis a giddy height! my dizzy head Swims at the precipice—'tis death to fall!
Lie still, thou coward heart! this is no time To shake with thy strong throbs the frame convuls'd. To die,—to be at rest—oh pleasant thought! Perchance to leap and live; the soul all still, And the wild tempest of the passions husht In one deep calm; the heart, no more diseas'd By the quick ague fits of hope and fear, Quietly cold! Presiding Powers look down! In vain to you I pour'd my earnest prayers, In vain I sung your praises: chiefly thou VENUS! ungrateful Goddess, whom my lyre Hymn'd with such full devotion! Lesbian groves, Witness how often at the languid hour Of summer twilight, to the melting song Ye gave your choral echoes! Grecian Maids Who hear with downcast look and flushing cheek That lay of love bear witness! and ye Youths, Who hang enraptur'd on the empassion'd strain Gazing with eloquent eye, even till the heart Sinks in the deep delirium! and ye too Shall witness, unborn Ages! to that song Of warmest zeal; ah witness ye, how hard, Her fate who hymn'd the votive hymn in vain! Ungrateful Goddess! I have hung my lute In yonder holy pile: my hand no more Shall wake the melodies that fail'd to move The heart of Phaon—yet when Rumour tells How from Leucadia Sappho hurl'd her down A self-devoted victim—he may melt Too late in pity, obstinate to love.
Oh haunt his midnight dreams, black NEMESIS! Whom,[1] self-conceiving in the inmost depths Of CHAOS, blackest NIGHT long-labouring bore, When the stern DESTINIES, her elder brood. And shapeless DEATH, from that more monstrous birth Leapt shuddering! haunt his slumbers, Nemesis, Scorch with the fires of Phlegethon his heart, Till helpless, hopeless, heaven-abandon'd wretch He too shall seek beneath the unfathom'd deep To hide him from thy fury.
How the sea Far distant glitters as the sun-beams smile, And gayly wanton o'er its heaving breast Phoebus shines forth, nor wears one cloud to mourn His votary's sorrows! God of Day shine on— By Man despis'd, forsaken by the Gods, I supplicate no more.
How many a day, O pleasant Lesbos! in thy secret streams Delighted have I plung'd, from the hot sun Screen'd by the o'er-arching groves delightful shade, And pillowed on the waters: now the waves Shall chill me to repose.
Tremendous height! Scarce to the brink will these rebellious limbs Support me. Hark! how the rude deep below Roars round the rugged base, as if it called Its long-reluctant victim! I will come. One leap, and all is over! The deep rest Of Death, or tranquil Apathy's dead calm Welcome alike to me. Away vain fears! Phaon is cold, and why should Sappho live? Phaon is cold, or with some fairer one— Thought worse than death!
(She throws herself from the precipice.)
[Footnote A: [Greek (transliterated)]: Ou tini choimaetheisa thea teche NUTH erezennae. HESIOD]
