She spoke, and disappeared with the voice. I rose amazed, and my dim eyes overflowed with tears. I go, O nymph,
to prove these healing rocks; fear recedes, borne down by powerful love. My fate, whatever it is, will be milder than at present. Blow up, gentle gales, beneath my falling body, and lay me softly on the swelling waves. And thou too, gentle Love, bear up my sinking limbs with out-spread wings; and let not Sappho's death profane the guiltless Leucadian flood. I will then hang up my lyre to Phœbus, and under it write this inscription: Grateful Sappho consecrates her harp to Phœbus; a gift that suits both the giver and the God. But why, relentless youth, do you drive me to distant coasts, when you can so easily cure me by your return? Your charms are more powerful than the Leucadian waves; and your merit and beauty make you a Phœbus to me. Can you bear, O more hard-hearted than the rocks and waves, to be reputed the cause of my untimely death? Would'st thou rather see this breast dashed on pointed rocks, than
pressed to thine? this breast, which you, Phaon, have so often praised as the seat of love and genius. But now genius is no more; grief checks my thoughts, and the edge of my wit is blunted by my misfortunes. My wonted strength no more furnishes the flowing lines; my lute is silent, and the sounding notes sink under a weight of woe. Ye Lesbian virgins and dames, so often celebrated by the Æolian lyre; Lesbians, the objects of my guilty love; cease to hope that I will more touch the sounding harp. Phaon is gone, and with him all my joys have vanished. Unhappy wretch, I had almost called him mine. Make him return; no more shall you complain of the absence of your poetess; it is he, he only, that inspires or quenches the poetic flame. Can prayers avail nothing? Is your savage breast proof against all tender feelings? or have the flying Zephyrs lost my words in air? O that the winds which bear away my words, would bring back your welcome sails! It is what, if you are wise for yourself, you
ought now, though late, to hasten. Or are you already on the way, and are sacrifices offered for your safety? Why do you tear my heart with cruel delays? Spread your sails: the sea-born Goddess will smooth the waves, and prosperous gales speed your course. Only weigh anchor, and set sail. Cupid himself, sitting at the helm, will govern the bark; he with a skilful hand will unfold and gather in the sails. Or do you choose to fly from unhappy Sappho? Alas! what have I done to be thus the object of your aversion? At least inform me of this by a few cruel lines, that I may plunge myself, with all my miseries, amidst the Leucadian waves.
