I go, ye Nymphs! thofe Rocks and Seas to prove ;
How much I fear, but ah! how much I love!
I go, ye Nymphs! where furious Love inspires:
Let Female Fears fubmit to Female Fires!
To Rocks and Seas I fly from Phaon's Hate,
And hope from Seas and Rocks a milder Fate.
Ye gentle Gales, beneath my Body blow,
And foftly lay me on the Waves below!
And thou, kind Love, my finking Limbs sustain,
Spread thy foft Wings, and waft me o'er the Main,
Nor let a Lover's Death the guiltless Flood profane!
On Phoebus Shrine my Harp I'll then bestow,
And this Infcription shall be plac❜d below.
"Here fhe who fung, to Him that did infpire,.
"Sapho to Phabus confecrates her Lyre,
"What suits with Sapho, Phoebus, suits with thee;;
"The Gift, the Giver, and the God agree."
But why alas, relentless Youth! ah why
To diftant Seas muft tender Sapho fly?
Thy Charms than thofe may far more pow'rful be,
And Phoebus' felf is lefs a God to me.
Ah! canst thou doom me to the Rocks and Sea,
O far more faithlefs and more hard than they?
Ah! canft thou rather fee this tender Breast
Dash'd on fharp Rocks, than to thy Bofom preft?
This Breast, which once, in vain! you lik'd fo well;
Where the Loves play'd, and where the Mufes dwell-
Alas! the Mufes now no more inspire.
Untun'd my Lute, and filent is my Lyre,
My languid Numbers have forgot to flow,
And Fancy finks beneath a Weight of Woe.
Ye Lesbian Virgins, and ye Lefbian Dames,
Themes of my Verfe, and Objects of my Flames,
No more your Groves with my glad Songs fhall ring,
No more thefe Hands fhall touch the trembling String
Since Phaon fled, I all those Joys refign,
Wretch that I am, I'd almost call'd him Mine!
Return fair Youth, return, and bring along
Joy to my Soul, and Vigour to my Song!
Abfent from thee, the Poet's Flame expires,
But ah! how fiercely burn the Lover's Fires?
Gods! can no Pray'rs, no Sighs, no Numbers move
One favage Heart, or teach it how to love?
The Winds my Pray'rs, my Sighs, my Numbers bear,
The flying Winds have loft them all in Air!
Oh when, alas! fhall more aufpicious Gales
To these fond Eyes reftore thy welcome Sails?
If you return -ah why these long Delays ?
Poor Sapho dies while careless Phaon says.
O launch thy Bark, nor fear the watry Plain,
Venus for thee fhall fmooth her native Main.
O launch thy Bark, fecure of profp'rous Gales,
For thee fhall Cupid fpread the fwelling Sails.
(yet ah! what Cause can be, Too cruel Youth, that you shou'd fly from me?) If not from Phaon I must hope for Ease,
Ah let me feek it from the raging Seas:
From thee to thofe, unpity'd I'll remove,
And either cease to live, or cease to love!
Macareus, and Canace, Son and Daughter to Eolus, God of the Winds, lov'd each other incestuously Canace was deliver'd of a Son, and committed him to her Nurse, to be fecretly convey'd away. The Infant crying out, by that means was difcover'd to Æolus, who, inrag'd at the Wickedness of his Children, commanded the Babe to be expos'd to Wild Beafts on the Mountains: And withal, fent a Sword to Canace, with this Meffage, That her Crimes would inftruct her how to use it. With this Sword she flew her felf: But before he dy'd fhe writ the following Letter to her Brother Macareus, who had taken Sanctuary in the Temple of Apollo.
F ftreaming Blood my fatal Letter stain,
Imagine, ere you read, the Writer flain ;
One Hand the Sword, and one the Pen imploys,
And in my Lap the ready Paper lyes.
Think in this Pofture thou behold'ft me write :
In this my cruel Father would delight.
O were he prefent, that his Eyes and Hands
Might fee and urge the Death which he commands;
Than all the raging Winds more dreadful, he,
Unmov'd, without a Tear my Wounds would fee.
Jove juftly plac'd him on a stormy Throne,
His Peoples Temper is fo like his own.
The North and South, and each contending Blaft
Are underneath his wide Dominion caft:
Those he can rule; but his tempeftuous Mind
Is, like his airy Kingdom, unconfin'd:
Ah! what avail my kindred Gods above,
That in their number I can reckon Jove!
What help will all my heav'nly Friend's afford,
When to my Breaft I lift the pointed Sword?
That Hour which join'd us came before its time,
In Death we had been one without a Crime.
Why did thy Flames beyond a Brother's move?
Why lov'd I thee with more than Sifter's Love?
For I lov'd too; and knowing not my Wound,
A fecret Pleasure in thy Kiffes found:
My Cheeks no longer did their Colour boast,
My Food grew loathfome, and my Strength I loft:
Still ere I fpoke, a Sigh would ftop my Tongue;
Short were my Slumbers, and my Nights were long.
I knew not from my Love these Griefs did grow,
Yet was, alas, the Thing I did not know.
My wily Nurfe by long Experience found,
And first discover'd to my Soul its Wound.
'Tis Love, faid fhe; and then my down-caft Eyes,
And guilty Dumbnefs, witnefs'd my Surprize.
Forc'd at the last, my fhameful Pain I tell :
And, oh, what follow'd! we both know too well!
"When half denying, more than half content,
Embraces warm'd me to a full Confent.
"Then with tumultuous Joys my Heart did beat,
"And Guilt that made them anxious made them great.”
But now my fwelling Womb heav'd up my Breast,
And rifing Weight my sinking Limbs opprest.
What Herbs, what Plants, did not my Nurse produce
To make Abortion by thy pow'rful Juice?
What Med'cines try'd we not, to thee unknown?
Our first Crime common; this was mine alone.
But the ftrong Child, fecure in his dark Cell,
With Nature's Vigour did our Arts repel.
And now the pale-fac'd Emprefs of the Night
Nine Times had fill'd her Orb with borrow'd Light:
Not knowing 'twas my Labour, I complain
Of fudden Shootings, and of grinding Pain:
My Throes came thicker, and my Cries encreaft,
Which with her Hand the confcious Nurfe fuppreft.
To that unhappy Fortune was I come,
Pain urg'd my Clamours; but Fear kept me Dumb.
With inward Struggling I reftrain'd my Cries,
And drunk the Tears that trickled from
my Eyes. Death was in fight, Lucina gave no Aid;
And even my dying had my Guilt betray'd.
Thou cam'ft; and in thy Countenance fate Despair:
Rent were thy Garments all, and torn thy Hair :
Yet feigning Comfort which thou cou'dst not give,
(Preft in thy Arms, and whifp'ring me to live:)
For both our fakes, (faidft thou) preferve thy Life;
Live, my dear Sifter, and my dearer Wife.
Rais'd by that Name, with my last Pangs, I ftrove:
Such Pow'r have Words, when spoke by those we love.
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