SAPPHO AND PHAON.
The story of Sappho and of Phaon has become almost, if not quite as well known, as that of Hero and Leander. Sappho was celebrated for her beauty and her poetical talents, all of which she bestowed in love on Phaon.
"A youth so shaped, with such a mien,
A form like that of Jove serene,
With sparkling eyes, and flowing hair,
And wit, that ever charms the fair."
He gave himself up for a time to the pleasure of her society, but man was as fickle then as now, and he grew tired, even conceiving a disdain for her who had so quickly given herself to his arms.
To a mind like Sappho's, finely wrought, as that of poets usually are, this became insupportable; life was a burthen; song, now that the one had gone whose praise she valued more than all beside, became neglected; and in a fit of insupportable madness she threw herself into the sea.
"From Leucadia's promontory
Flung herself headlong for the Lesbian boy,
(Ungrateful he to work her such annoy;)
But time hath as in sad requital, given
A branch of laurel to her, and some bard
Swears that a heathen God or Goddess gave
Her swan-like wings wherewith to fly to heaven.
And now, at times, when gloomy tempests roar
Along the Adriatic, in the waves
She dips her plumes, and on the watery shore
Sings as the love-crazed Sappho sung of yore."
Barry Cornwall.
Of all her compositions, but two now remain; which, fragments as they are, shew by their uncommon sweetness and beauty, how worthily the praises of the ancients were bestowed upon a poet, whom they even ventured to call the tenth muse.
"Then came a dark browed spirit, on whose head
Laurel and withering roses loosely hung:
She held a harp, amongst whose chords her hand
Wandered for music—and it came. She sang
A song despairing, and the whispering winds
Seemed envious of her melody and streamed
Amidst the wires to rival her, in vain.
Short was the strain but sweet: methought it spoke
Of broken hearts, and still and moonlight seas,
Of love, and loneliness, and fancy gone,
And hopes decayed for ever: and my ear
Caught well remembered names, 'Leucadia's rock,'
At times, and 'faithless Phaon:' then the form
Passed not, but seemed to melt in air away:
This was the Lesbian Sappho."
Barry Cornwall.
The Lesbians were so enraptured with her strains, that they raised her to divine honours, and erected a temple to her, and even stamped their money with her image.
"Thou! whose impassioned face
The poet loves to trace,
Theme of the sculptor's art, and poet's story,
How many a wandering thought
Thy loveliness hath brought,
Warming the heart with its imagined glory!
Yet, was it History's truth.
That tale of wasted youth,
Of endless grief, and love forsaken, pining?
What wert thou, thou whose woe
The old traditions show,
With Fame's cold light around thee vainly shining!
Did'st thou indeed sit there
In languid lone despair?
Thy harp neglected by thee idly lying?
Thy soft and earnest gaze,
Watching the lingering rays,
In the far west, where Summer-day was dying?
Did'st thou, as day by day,
Rolled heavily away,
And left thee anxious, nerveless and dejected,
Wandering thro' bowers beloved,
Roving where he had roved,
Yearn for his presence, as for one expected?
Did'st thou, with fond wild eyes
Fix'd on the starry skies,
Wait feverishly for each new day to waken?
Trusting some glorious morn
Might witness his return,
Unwilling to believe thyself forsaken?
And when contrition came,
Chilling that heart of flame,
Did'st thou, O saddest of Earth's grieving daughters,
From the Lucadian steep,
Dash, with a desperate leap,
And hide thyself within the whelming waters?
Such is the tale they tell,
Vain was thy beauty's spell—
Vain all the praise thy song could still inspire,
Though many a happy band,
Rung with less skilful hand,
The borrowed love notes of thy echoing lyre.
Fame, to thy breaking heart,
No comfort could impart,
In vain thy brow the laurel wreath was wearing;
One grief and one alone
Could bow thy bright head down,
—Thou wert a woman, and wert left despairing!"
Mrs. Norton.