Sappho and Phaon: Sonnet XXXVIII

Oh sigh ! thou steal'st, the herald of the breast,
The lover's fears, the lover's pangs, to tell ;
Thou bid'st with timid grace the bosom swell,
Cheating the day of joy, the night of rest!
Oh ! lucid tears! with eloquence confest,
Why on my fading cheek unheeded dwell,
Meek, as the dew-drops on the flowret's bell
By ruthless tempests to the green-sod prest.
Fond sigh, be hush'd! congeal, O! slighted tear !
Thy feeble pow'rs the busy Fates control !
Or if thy crystal streams again appear,
Let them, like Lethe's, to oblivion roll :
For love the tyrant plays, when hope is near,
And she who flies the lover, chains the soul !