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Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton - The Picture Of Sappho
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I.

THOU! whose impassion`d face 
The Painter loves to trace, 
Theme of the Sculptor`s art and Poet`s story-- 
How many a wand`ring thought 
Thy loveliness hath brought, 
Warming the heart with its imagined glory! 
II.

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? 
III.

Didst 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-- 
IV.

While with low rustling wings, 
Among the quivering strings 
The murmuring breeze faint melody was making, 
As though it wooed thy hand 
To strike with new command, 
Or mourn`d with thee because thy heart was breaking? 
V.

Didst thou, as day by day 
Roll`d 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? 
VI.

Didst 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? 
VII.

And when conviction came, 
Chilling that heart of flame, 
Didst thou, O saddest of earth`s grieving daughters ! 
From the Leucadian steep 
Dash, with a desperate leap, 
And hide thyself within the whelming waters? 
VIII.

Yea, in their hollow breast 
Thy heart at length found rest! 
The ever-moving waves above thee closing-- 
The winds, whose ruffling sigh 
Swept the blue waters by, 
Disturb`d thee not!--thou wert in peace reposing! 
IX.

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. 
X.

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!
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