Sappho

She stands in act to fall — her garland torn,
Its wither'd rose-leaves round the rock are blowing;
Loose to the winds her locks dishevell'd flowing
Tell of the many sorrows she has borne.

Her eye, up-turn'd to heaven, has lost its fire —
One hand is press'd to feel her bosom's beating,
And mark her lingering pulses back retreating —
The other wanders o'er her silent lyre.

Clear rolls the midway sun — she knows it not;
Vainly the winds waft by the flower's perfume;
To her the sky is hung in deepest gloom —
She only feels the noon-beam burning hot.

What to the broken heart the dancing waves,
The air all kindling — what a sounding name?
O! what a mockery, to dream of fame —
It only lures us on to make us slaves.

And Love — O! what art thou with all thy light?
Ineffable joy is round thee, till we know,
Thou art but as a vision of the night —
And then the bursting heart, how deep its wo.

« They tell me I shall live — my name shall rise,
When nature falls — O! blest illusion, stay — "
A moment hopes and joys around her play;
Then darkness hides her — faint she sinks and dies.