Who does thy tender heart subdue,
Tell me, my Sappho, tell me who?
Though now he shuns thy longing arms,
He soon shall court thy slighted charms:
Though now thy offerings he despise,
He soon to thee shall sacrifice:
Though now he freeze, he soon shall burn,
And be thy victim in his turn.
Celestial visitant, once more
Thy needful presence I implore!
In pity come and ease my grief,
Bring my distemper'd soul relief,
Favour thy suppliant's hidden fires,
And give me all my heart desires.
FROM THE GREEK OF THEOCRITUS,
AN amorous shepherd loved a cruel maid;
And breathed vain wishes, all with scorn repaid.
Her beauteous figure but belied her mind-
A form too lovely, with a soul unkind!
She knew not Cupid, or his bitter dart;
She knew not Cupid's power to tame the heart.
No blush of love in soft suffusion bloom'd,
Nor pity's dewy light her eyes illumed.
His raging wound she ne'er assay'd to calm;
Nor pour'd, in kisses or in sighs, a balm!
But savage as the wildest beast that prowls,
That on the forest-hunters grimly scowls,
No parley could her fiery spirit brook;
Lour'd her dark eyes, and death was in her look!
Oft from her face the roseate colour flew,
And her whole soul in anger rush'd to view!
Yet was she fair, and e'en disdain had charms—
He sigh'd to snatch her frowning to his arms!
At length, bewilder'd in the gloom of Fate,
He sought with trembling steps the virgin's gate;
Kiss'd the bare threshold, hung his throbbing head;
And, his tears gushing in a torrent, said-
"Ah, cruel fair! in some wild forest born!
Thy hatred-love; and all thy pleasure-scorn!
Thy nurse-the bloody lioness alone:
Thy cold, cold heart-impenetrable stone!
Take-take this cord-'tis all I now can give―
I go (nor longer will thy torment live)
To where the wretched find relief I go-
Where lovers drink oblivion of their woe!
Yet what-this scorching fever-what can tame?
Alas! all Lethe could not quench the flame!
Adieu, ye gates, to meet these eyes no more;
Farewell! I see what time reserves in store!
Fair is the rose, yet soon its beauty flies!
Soon the sweet violet, soon the lily, dies!
Soon melts the whiteness of the fleeting snow;
Thus passes youth! thus fades its vernal glow!
The time will come, when e'en thy heart shall prove,
While stream thy bitter tears, the pangs of love!
Yet grant this prayer, alas! I ask no more,
When thou shalt see me pendent at thy door,
Oh pass not-pass not by-but kindly shed
A tear of pity to embalm the dead!
And loose the cord; and o'er me lightly throw
Your shading robe; and then one kiss bestow;
At least refuse not such a boon in death-
Fear not, no kisses can restore my breath;
Oh! fear not-I shall never more arise!
E'en though thou kiss with soft relenting sighs!
Last, duly dug, my sepulchre provide,
My love and me its hollow cell shall hide!
And thrice Here rests my friend!' departing say;
Or rather cry,' Here lies my true love's clay!'
Then let this simple epitaph be mine
(My trembling hand now traces the faint line),
'Love slew him, traveller!-stop-to soothe his
shade!
And pitying say, he loved a ruthless maid!"
This said, and in despairing frenzy bold,
High by the wall a ponderous stone he roll'd;
Then, climbing, fix'd the cord above, and tied
The fatal noose, and spurn'd the stone aside-
Quivering in death! the fair one, when she saw
Her pendent lover, show'd no signs of awe,
Nor shed one tear; but scornful glances cast,
And her light robe polluted, as she pass'd;
Then ran to view the wrestlers in the grove;
Thence visiting the bath devote to love:
There Cupid's image on a marble base
Stood frowning o'er the consecrated place;
And, instant, as he saw the fair one lave,
He fell, and crush'd her in the fountain wave!
Life's purple current spouted at the blow,
And these last words came faltering from below—
"Lovers, adieu! behold the scorner dies!
Love those that love! for Heaven's decrees are
FROM THE GREEK OF THEOCRITUS.
As Cupid once, the arrant'st rogue alive,
Robb'd the sweet treasures of the fragrant hive,
A bee the frolic urchin's finger stung-
With many a loud complaint his hands he wrung,
Stamp'd wild the ground, his rosy finger blew,
And straight, in anguish, to his mother flew:
'Mother (he cried, in tears all frantic drown'd),
'Twas but a little bee! and what a wound!'
But she with smiles her hapless boy survey'd,
And thus, in chiding accents, sweetly said-
'Of thee a truer type is no where found—
Who, though so little, givest so great a wound!'
HYMN TO THE EVENING STAR.
FROM THE GREEK OF BION.
MILD star of Eve, whose tranquil beams
Are grateful to the Queen of Love,
Fair planet, whose effulgence gleams
More bright than all the host above,
And only to the moon's clear light
Yields the first honours of the night!
All hail, thou soft, thou holy star,
Thou glory of the midnight sky!
And when my steps are wandering far,
Leading the shepherd minstrelsy,
Then, if the moon deny her ray,
Oh guide me, Hesper, on my way!
No savage robber of the dark,
No foul assassin claims thy aid,
To guide his dagger to its mark,
Or light him on his plundering trade;
My gentler errand is to prove
The transports of requited love.
ONCE a youth, as he fowl'd in the midst of a grove, On the branch of a boxtree saw fugitive Love: In triumph he leap'd; and in hopes of a prize (For he thought it a bird of a wonderful size), Selected and join'd his best twigs for a snare ; Then mark'd Cupid hopping, now here and now there.
Impatient, at length, at so vain a delay,
He flung all his twigs, in a passion, away;
And, eager his marvellous tale to impart,
Ran up to the man who had taught him his art:
And while the old rustic stood holding the plough,
Pointed out the strange bird that had perch'd on
The countryman shaking his head, with a smile,
Said archly- Ah, try not with twigs to beguile
Such dangerous game-O, avoid it, my boy!
'Tis a fell bird of prey, and but form'd to destroy.
Thrice happy, if never you catch him!-then shun
A frolic, whose end will have nothing of fun!
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