I swear to you by the God of love, by whom let me never be abandoned, and by the sacred nine, those deities whom I adore, that when first told (I hardly know by whom) that you and all my joys had fled, I had neither the power of speaking nor of weeping; my eyes did not grant me the relief of tears, and my tongue was deprived of all motion; a death-like coldness seized my boding heart: but when impetuous grief at last found a vent, I beat my breast, and rent my scattered locks, raving in all the wildness of furious despair; like a pious mother who bears to the funeral-pile the breathless body of her darling son. My brother Charaxus rejoices at the disaster, and barbarously triumphs in my griefs: his hated image is ever before my eyes; and, to reproach me with the shameful cause, he asks, Why all this sadness? Your daughter still lives. Love and shame are ever inconsistent. With garments torn, and my bosom bare, I proclaim to all the world my
guilt. You, Phaon, take up all my thoughts; my care by day, and the nightly object of my dreams; dreams that charm more than the brightest day. In these I find you, though fled to remote regions; but, alas! the joys of sleep are vain and short-lived. Oft you seem to wind your arms round my yielding neck. Oft my arms fondly encircle thine. I soothe and address you in softest words, and my mouth is prompt to utter the language of my heart. I seem to give and take endearing kisses; and yield to joys which I blush to mention, while yet I must confess how much they please. But when the rising sun spreads his light over all; as if once more deserted, I complain that sleep has fled so soon. I retire to the caves and groves, as if caves and groves could yield relief; and fondly court the haunts that have witnessed your dear embraces. Thither I run, my hair loose and disheveled, like those who are infatuated by some powerful sorceress. There I behold the caves beset with rugged cliffs, that to me were more pleasant than the finest Phrygian marble. I find the grove that hath often afforded us a flowery bed, and sheltered us from the heat by
its spreading leaves. But I no more find him with whom I haunted these beloved shades: they now can please no more; for to him they owed all their charms. I view the pressed grass on which we have reposed our wearied limbs, where the bending turf retains the print of our double weight. i kiss the earth pressed by your lovely limbs, and bedew with tears the grateful herbs. For thee the trees, dropping their leaves, seem to mourn, and the tuneful birds deny their songs. The Phocian bind alone, that disconsolate mother, who took so cruel a revenge on her Thracian lord, mourns the hard fate of Itys. The nightingale mourns the fate of Itys; Sappho laments that she is deserted by Phaon. All else is silent, and
involved in the shades of night. A spring there is, whose waters run clear and transparent as crystal: here, as many think, a deity resides. Above, a flowery lotos spreads its shading branches, and seems itself a grove: the banks around are edged with eternal green. Here, while, after an effusion of tears, I rested my wearied limbs, a Naiad suddenly stood before my eyes. She stood, and said, O you who burn with an ill-requited flame, fly to the Acarnanian shore. Apollo from an impending rock surveys the extended ocean below, which is called, by the inhabitants, the sea of Actium and Leucate: hence Deucalion, inflamed with the hopeless love of Pyrrha, plunged himself unhurt into the main. Forthwith love changing, possessed the obstinate heart of Pyrrha; and Deucalion was freed from his flame. Such is the law of the place. Haste then, throw yourself from high Leucadia, nor dread the threatening steep.
