The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSappho: A New RenderingThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Sappho: A New RenderingAuthor: SapphoTranslator: H. De Vere StacpooleRelease date: April 15, 2013 [eBook #42543]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Heather Strickland & Marc D'Hooghe (Images generously made available by the Internet Archive - University of Toronto-Robarts)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SAPPHO: A NEW RENDERING ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Sappho: A New RenderingAuthor: SapphoTranslator: H. De Vere StacpooleRelease date: April 15, 2013 [eBook #42543]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Heather Strickland & Marc D'Hooghe (Images generously made available by the Internet Archive - University of Toronto-Robarts)
Title: Sappho: A New Rendering
Author: SapphoTranslator: H. De Vere Stacpoole
Author: Sappho
Translator: H. De Vere Stacpoole
Release date: April 15, 2013 [eBook #42543]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Heather Strickland & Marc D'Hooghe (Images generously made available by the Internet Archive - University of Toronto-Robarts)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SAPPHO: A NEW RENDERING ***
Sappho lies remote from us, beyond the fashions and the ages, beyond sight, almost beyond the wing of Thought, in the world's extremest youth.
To thrill the imagination with the vast measure of time between the world of Sappho and the world of the Great War, it is quite useless to express it in years, one must express it in æons, just as astronomers, dealing with sidereal distances, think, not in miles, but in light years.
Between us and Sappho lie the Roman Empire and the age of Christ, and beyond the cross the age of Athenian culture, culminating in the white flower of the Acropolis.
Had she travelled she might have visited Nineveh before its destruction by Cyaxares, or watched the Phœnicians set sail on their African voyage at the command of Nechos. She might have spoken with Draco and Jeremiah the Prophet and the father of Gautama the founder of Buddhism. For her the Historical Past, which is the background of all thought, held little but echoes, voices, and the forms of gods, and the immediate present little but Lesbos and the Ægean Sea, whose waters had been broken by the first trireme only a hundred and fifty years before her birth.
Men call her the greatest lyric poet that the world has known, basing their judgment on the few perfect fragments that remain of her song. But her voice is more than the voice of a lyric poet, it is the voice of a world that has been, of a freshness and beauty that will never be again, and to give that voice a last touch of charm remains the fact that it comes to us as an echo.
For of Sappho's poetry not a single vestige remains that does not come to us reflected in the form of a quotation from the works of some admirer, some one captured by her beauty or her wisdom or the splendour of her verse, or some one, like Herodian or Apollonius the sophist of Alexandria, who takes it to exhibit the æolic use of words or accentuation, or Hephæstion, to give an example of her choriambic tetrameters.
Only one complete poem comes to us, the Hymn to Aphrodite quoted by Dionysius of Halicarnassus, and one almost complete, the Ode to Anactoria, quoted by Longinus; all other quotations are fragments: a few lines, a few words, a word, the merest traces.
What fate gave us the shipping lists of Homer, yet denied us Sappho; preserved theLexicon Græcum Iliadis et Odysseæof Apollonius, yet cut the song to Anactoria short, and reduced the song of the orchard to three lines? or decided that Sophists and Grammarians, exhibiting dry-as-dust truths, should be a medium between her and us?
Some say that her works were burned at Constantinople, or at Rome, by the Christians, and what we know of the early Christians lends colour to the statement. Some that they were burned by the Byzantine emperors and the poems of Gregory Nazianzen circulated in their place.
But whatever the fate it failed in its evil intention. Sappho remains, eternal as Sirius, and it is doubtful if her charm and her hold upon the world would have been strengthened by the full preservation of her work.
As it is, added to the longing which all great art inspires, we have the longing inspired by suggestion. That lovely figure belonging to the feet she shows us "crossed by a broidered strap of Lydian work," would it have been as beautiful unveiled as imagined? Did she long for maidenhood? Why did the swallow trouble her, and what did the daughter of Cyprus say to her in a dream?
There is not a fragment of Sappho that is not surrounded in the mind of the reader by the rainbow of suggestion. Just as the gods draped the human form to give desire imagination, so, perhaps, some god and no fate has all but hidden the mind of Sappho.
Looking at it in another way one might fancy that all the demons of malignity and destruction had conspired to destroy and traduce: to destroy the works and traduce the character of the poet.
The game of defamation was begun in Athens in the age of corruption by lepers, and carried on through the succeeding ages by their kind, till Welcker came with his torch and showed these gibbering ghosts standing on nothing and with nothing in their hands.
Colonel Mure tried to put Welcker's torch out, and only burned his fingers. Comparetti snuffed it, only to make it burn the brighter. But bright or dim, the torch was only intended to show the lepers. Sappho shines by her own light in the minutest fragments of her that remain—Fragments whose deathless energy, like the energy of radium, has vivified literature in all ages and times.
The mind of Sappho runs through all literature like a spangled thread.
Tear the red rose to pieces if you will,The soul that is the rose you may not kill;Destroy the page, you may, but not the wordsThat share eternal life with flowers and birds.And the least words of Sappho—let them fall,Cast where you will, some bird will rise and call,Some flower unfold in some forsaken spot.Hill hyacinth, or blue forget-me-not.
INTRODUCTIONFOREWORD
I.HYMN TO APHRODITEII.ODE TO ANACTORIAIII.WHERE BLOOMS THE MYRTLEIV.I LOVED THEEV.INVOCATIONVI.CLAÏSVII.TO A SWALLOWVIII.LOVEIX.WEDDING SONGX.EVENINGXI.MAIDENHOODXII.MOONLIGHTXIII.ORCHARD SONGXIV.DICAXV.GRACEXVI.AS ON THE HILLSXVII.TO ATTHISXVIII.AS WIND UPON THE MOUNTAIN OAKSXIX.GOODNESSXX.THE FISHERMAN'S TOMBXXI.TIMASXXII.DEAD SHALT THOU LIEXXIII.DEATHXXIV.ALCÆUS AND SAPPHOXXV.THE ALTARXXVI.THE ALTARXXVII.LOVEXXVIII.LIKE THE SWEET APPLEXXIX.PROPHESYXXX.FOR THEEXXXI.FRIENDXXXII.THE MOON HAS SETXXXIII.THE SKYXXXIV.TO HER LYREXXXV.NEVER ON ANY MAIDENXXXVI.* * *XXXVII.ANGERXXXVIII.ADONISXXXIX.LEDAXL.THE CAPTIVEXLI.INVOCATIONXLII.YOUTH AND AGEXLIII.FRAGMENTXLIV.THE LESBIAN SINGERXLV.ON THE TOMB OF A PRIESTES OF ARTEMISXLVI.TO A BRIDEXLVII.HERMESXLVIII.ADONISXLIX.SLEEPL.THY FORM IS LOVELYLI.THE BRIDEGROOMLII.REGRETLIII.FRAGMENTLIV.SAPPHO TO PHAON
IHYMN TO APHRODITEDaughter of Zeus and Immortal,Aphrodite, sereneWeaver of spells, at thy portalHear me and slay not, O Queen!As in the past, hither to meFrom thy far palace of gold,Drawn by the doves that o'erflew me,Come, as thou earnest of old.Swiftly thy flock bore thee hither,Smiling, as turned I to thee,Spoke thou across the blue weather,"Sappho, why callest thou me?""Sappho, what Beauty disdains thee,Sappho, who wrongest thine heart,Sappho, what evil now pains thee,Whence sped the dart?"Flies from thee, soon she shall follow,Turns from thee, soon she shall love,Seeking thee swift as the swallow,Ingrate though now she may prove."Come, once again to release me,Join with my fire thy fire,Freed from the torments that seize me,Give me, O Queen! my desire!IIODE TO ANACTORIAThat man, whoever he may be,Who sits awhile to gaze on thee,Hearing thy lovely laugh, thy speech,Throned with the gods he seems to me;For when a moment to mine eyesThy form discloses, silentlyI stand consumed with fires that riseLike flames around a sacrifice.Sight have I none, bells out of tuneRing in mine ears, my tongue lies dumb;Paler than grass in later June,Yet daring all(To thee I come).IIIWHERE BLOOMS THE MYRTLEO Muse, upon thy golden throne,Far in the azure, fair, alone.Sing what the Teian sweetly sang,—The Teian sage whose lineage sprangWhere blooms the myrtle in the gayLand of fair women far away.IVI LOVED THEEI loved thee, Atthis, once,once long ago.VINVOCATIONGoddess of Cyprus come (where beauty lightsThe way) and serve in cups of gold these lipsWith nectar, mixed by love with all delightsOf golden days, and dusk of amorous nights.VICLAÏSI have a daughter,Claïs fair,Poised like a golden flower in air,Lydian treasures her limbs outshine(Claïs, beloved one,Claïs mine!)VIITO A SWALLOWPandion's daughter—O fair swallow,Why dost thou weary me—(Where should I follow?)VIIILOVESweet mother, at the idle loom I lean,Weary with longing for the boy that stillRemains a dream of loveliness—to fillMy soul, my life, at Aphrodite's will.IXWEDDING SONGWorkmen lift highThe beams of the roof,Hymenæus!Like Ares from skyComes the groom to the bride.Hymenæus!Than men who must dieStands he taller in pride,Hymenæus!XEVENINGChildren astray to their mothers, and goats to the herd,Sheep to the shepherd, through twilight the wings of the bird,All things that morning has scattered with fingers of gold,All things thou bringest, O Evening! at last to the fold.XIMAIDENHOODMaidenhood! Maidenhood! where hast thou gone from me.Whither, O Slain!I shall return to thee, I who have gone from thee, never again.XIIMOONLIGHTThe stars around the fair moon fadeAgainst the night,When gazing full she fills the gladeAnd spreads the seas with silvery light.XIIIORCHARD SONGCool murmur of water through apple-woodTroughs without numberThe whole orchard fills, whilst the leavesLend their music to slumber.XIVDICAWith flowers fair adorn thy lustrous hair,Dica, amidst thy locks sweet blossoms twine,With thy soft hands, for so a maiden standsAccepted of the gods, whose eyes divineAre turned away from her—though fair as MayShe waits, but round whose locks no flowers shine.XVGRACEWhat country maiden charms thy heart,However fair, however sweet,Who has not learned by gracious ArtTo draw her dress around her feet?XVIAS ON THE HILLSAs on the hills the shepherds trample the hyacinth down,Staining the earth with darkness, there where a flower has blown.XVIITO ATTHISHateful my face is to thee,Hateful to thee beyond speaking,Atthis, who fliest from meLike a white bird Andromeda seeking.XVIIIAS WIND UPON THE MOUNTAIN OAKSAs wind upon the mountain oaks in storm,So Eros shakes my soul, my life, my form.XIXGOODNESSHe who is fair is good to look upon;He who is good is fair, though youth be gone.XXTHE FISHERMAN'S TOMBOver the fisher Pelagon Meniscus his father setThe oar worn by the wave, the trap, and the fishing net;—For all men, and for ever, memorials there to beOf the luckless life of the fisher, the labourer of the sea.XXITIMASThis is the dust of Tunas, who, unwed,Passed hence to Proserpina's house of gloom.In mourning all her sorrowing playmates shedTheir curls and cast the tribute on her tomb.XXIIDEAD SHALT THOU LIEDead shalt thou lie for ever, and forgotten,For whom the flowers of song have never bloomed;A wanderer amidst the unbegotten,In Hades' house a shadow ay entombed.XXIIIDEATHDeath is an evil, for the gods choose breath;Had Death been good the gods had chosen Death.XXIVALCÆUS AND SAPPHOALCÆUSSeet violet-weaving Sappho, whose soft smileMy tongue should free,Lo, I would speak, but shame holds me the whileI gaze on thee.SAPPHOHadst thou but felt desire of noble things,Hadst not thy tongue proposed to speak no good,Thy words had not been destitute of wings,Nor shame thine eyes subdued.XXVTHE ALTARThen the full globed moon arose, and thereThe women stood as round an altar fair.XXVITHE ALTARAnd thus at times, in Crete, the women thereCircle in dance around the altar fair;In measured movement, treading as they passWith tender feet the soft bloom of the grass.XXVIILOVEAll delicacy unto me is lovely, and for me,O Love!Thy wings are as the midday fire,Thy splendour as the sun above.XXVIIILIKE THE SWEET APPLELike the sweet apple that reddensAt end of the bough—Far end of the bough—Left by the gatherer's swaying,Forgotten, so thou.Nay, not forgotten, ungotten,Ungathered (till now).XXIXPROPHESYMethinks hereafter in some later springEcho will bear to men the songs we sing.XXXFOR THEEFor thee, unto the altar will I leadA white goat—To the altar by the sea;And there, where waves advance and waves recede,A full libation will I pour for thee.XXXIFRIENDFriend, face me so and raiseUnto my face thy face,Unto mine eyes thy gaze,Unto my soul its grace.XXXIITHE MOON HAS SETThe moon has set beyond the seas,And vanished are the Pleiades;Half the long weary night has gone,Time passes—yet I lie alone.XXXIIITHE SKYI think not with these twoWhite arms to touch the blue.XXXIVTO HER LYRESinging, O shell, divine!Let now thy voice be mine.XXXVNEVER ON ANY MAIDENNever on any maiden, the golden sun shall shine,Never on any maiden whose wisdom matches thine.XXXVI* * *I spoke with Aphrodite in a dream.XXXVIIANGERWhen anger stirs thy breast,Speak not at all(For words, once spoken, restBeyond recall).XXXVIIIADONISAh for Adonis!(Where the willows sighThe call still comesThrough spring's sweet mystery.)XXXIXLEDAThey say, 'neath leaf and blossomLeda found in the gloomAn egg, white as her bosom,Under an iris bloom.XLTHE CAPTIVENow Love has bound me, trembling, hands and feet,O Love so fatal, Love so bitter-sweet.XLIINVOCATIONCome to me, O ye graces,Delicate, tender, fair;Come from your heavenly places,Muses with golden hair.XLIIYOUTH AND AGEIf love thou hast for me, not hate,Arise and find a younger mate;For I no longer will abideWhere youth and age lie side by side.XLIIIFRAGMENTFrom heaven returning;Red of hue, his chlamys burningAgainst the blue.XLIVTHE LESBIAN SINGERUpstanding, as the Lesbian singer standsAbove the singers of all other lands.XLVON THE TOMB OF A PRIESTESS OF ARTEMISVoiceless I speak, and from the tomb replyUnto Æthopia, Leto's child, was IVowed by the daughter of Hermocleides,Who was the son of Saonaiades.O virgin queen, unto my prayer incline,Bless him and cast thy blessing on our line.XLVITO A BRIDEBride, around whom the rosy loves are flying,Sweet image of the Cyprian undying,The bed awaits thee; go, and with him lying,Give to the groom thy sweetness, softly sighing.May Hesperus in gladness pass before thee,And Hera of the silver throne bend o'er thee.XLVIIHERMESAmbrosia there was mixed, and from his stationHermes the bowl for waiting gods outpoured;Then raised they all their cups and made oblation,Blessing the bridegroom (by the bride adored).XLVIIIADONISTender Adonis stricken is lying.What, Cytherea, now can we do?Beat your breasts, maidens, Adonis is dying,Rending your garments (the white fragments strew).XLIXSLEEPWith eyes of darkness,The sleep of night.LTHY FORM IS LOVELYThy form is lovely and thine eyes are honeyed,O'er thy face the paleClear light of love lies like a veil.Bidding thee rise,With outstretched hands,Before thee Aphrodite stands.LITHE BRIDEGROOMJoy born of marriage thou provest,Bridegroom thrice blest,Holding the maiden thou lovestClasped to thy breast.LIIREGRETThose unto whom I have given,These have my heart most riven.LIIIFRAGMENTUpon thy girl friend's white and tender breast,Sleep thou, and on her bosom find thy rest.LIVSAPPHO TO PHAONA NEW RENDERING OF OVID'S HEROIC EPISTLE, XV.IPhaon, most lovely, closest to my heart,Can your dear eyes forget, or must I standConfessed in name, beloved that thou art,Lost to my touch and in another land.Sappho now calls thee, lyre and Lyric MuseForgotten, and the tears born of her wrongsBlinding her eyes, upturned but to refusePhœbus, the fountain of all joyous songs.I burn, as when in swiftness, past the byres,Flame takes the corn, borne by the winds that blow;For what are Ætna's flames to my desires,Thou, who by Ætna wanderest, O Thou!The Lyric Muse has turned, as I from her,Peace, Peace alone can join us once again,The blue sea in its solitude lies fair,But, desolate, I turn from it in pain.No more the girls of Lesbos move my heart,My blameless love for them is now no more,Before my love for thee all loves depart,Cold wanderer thou upon a distant shore.O thou art lovely! wert thou garbed like him,Apollo by thy side a shade would be.Garland thy tresses with the ivy dimAnd Bacchus would be less himself, by thee.Apollo, yet, who bent, as Bacchus fell,One to the Cretan, one to Daphne's fire,Beside me, what are they? I cast my spellO'er seas and lands, the music of my lyreEchoes across the world where mortals dwell,Renders the earth in tune with my desire.Alcæus strikes Olympus with his song,Boldly and wild his music finds its star.Unto the human does my voice belongAnd Aphrodite smiles on me from far.Have I no charms? has genius lost her touchTo turn simplicity to beauty's zone?Am I so small, whose towering height is suchThat in the world of men I stand alone?Yea, I am brown—an Æthiopian's faceTurned Perseus from his path, a flame of fire.White doves or dark, which hath the finer grace?Are they not equal, netted by desire?If by no charm except thine own sweet charmThou can'st be moved, ah then, alas, for me!Fires of the earth thy coldness will not warm,And Phaon's self must Phaon's lover be.Yet once, ah once! forgetful of the world,You lay engirdled by this world of mine,Those nights remain, be earth to darkness hurled,Deathless, as passion's ecstasy divine.My songs around you were the only birds,My voice the only music, in your fireWith kisses, burning yet, you killed my wordsAnd found my kisses sweeter than desire.I filled you with delight, when close embraced;In the last act of love I gave you heaven,And yet again, delirious as we faced,And yet again, till in exhaustion, evenLove's self half died and nothing more remained,But earth and life half lost, and heaven gained.And now, Sicilian girls—O heart of mine,Why was I born so far from Sicily?—Sicilian girls, unto my words incline,Beware of smiles, of insincerity,Beware the words that once belonged to me,The fruits of passion and the seeds of grief;O Cyprian by the fair Sicilian sea,Sappho now calls thee, turn to her relief!Shall Fortune still pursue me, luckless one,With hounds of woe pursue me down the years?Sorrow was mine since first I saw the sun,The ashes of my parents knew my tears.My brother cast the gifts of life awayFor one unworthy of all gifts but gold,Grief follows grief and on this woeful dayAn infant daughter in my arms I hold.Fates! What more can ye do, what more essay?Phaon! ah yes, he is the last, I know.The first, the all, the grave that once was gay,The dark veil o'er my purple robe ye throw,My curls no more are curls, nor scent the airWith perfume from the flowers Egyptians grow,The gold that bound these locks of mine so fairHas parted for the wind these locks to blow.All arts of love were mine when he was by,Whose sun is now the sun of Sicily.Phaon! when I was born, the mystic threeCalled Aphrodite on my birth to gaze,And then the Cyprian, turning, called on theeTo be my fate and fill my dreams and days.Thou for whose sake Aurora's eyes might turnFrom Cephalus, or Cynthia give thee sleep,Pouring oblivion from night's marble urn,Bidding Endymion to watch thy sheep!—Lo! as I write I weep, and nought appearsBut Love, half veiled by broken words and tears.You! you! who left me without kiss or tearOr word, to murmur softly like a childBegotten of thy voice, deception wereLess cruel far than silence, you who smiledFalsely so often, had you no false phrase—You who so often had false tales to tell—No voice there, at the parting of our ways,To say "Farewell, O Love!" or just "Farewell"!I had no gift to give you when you passed,And wrongs were all the gifts received from thee,I had no words to tell you at the lastBut these: "Forgo not life, forget not me."And when I heard, told by some casual tongue,That thou wert gone, Grief turned me then to stone,Voiceless I stood as though I ne'er had sung,Pulseless and lost, for ever more alone.Without a sigh, without a tear to shed,Grief held me, Grief who has no word to say.Then, rising as one rises from the dead,My soul broke forth as one breaks forth to slay.Rending and wounding all this frame of mine,Cursing the Gods, the moments and the years,Now like the clouds of storm, where lightnings shine,Uplifted, then resolving into tears.Debased, when turns my brother in his scornMy grief to laughter, pointing to my child;Till madness takes me as the fire the cornAnd, in reviling thee, I stand reviled.Ah! but at night, At night I turn to thee.In dreams our limbs are joined, as flame with flame,In dreams again your arms are girdling me,I taste your soul in joys I blush to name.Ah! but the day that follows on the night,The emptiness that drives me to the plainTo seek those spots that knew my lost delight,The grotto that shall shield us not again.Here lies the grass we pressed in deeds of love,Lips, limbs entwined—I kiss the ground to-day.The herbs lie withered, and the birds that moveAre songless, and the very trees are grey.Night takes the day and falls upon the groves,The nightingale alone is left to cry,Lamenting, in the song that sorrow loves,To Tereus she calls, to Phaon, I.IIThere is a spring, through whose cool water showsThe sand like silver, clear as seen through air.There is a spring, above whose mirror growsA lotus like a grove in flower fair.Here, as I lay in tears, a spirit stoodBorn of the water, then she called to me,Sappho, pursuing Love, by Grief pursued,Sappho, beside the blue Leucadian seaThere stands a rock, and there above the caves,Whose wandering echoes reach Apollo's fane,Down leaping to the blue and breaking waves,Lovers find sleep, nor dream of love again.Deucalion here found ease from Pyrrah's scorn,Sappho arise, and where the sharp cliffs fall,Thy body, that had better not been born,Cast to the waves, the blue, blue waves that call.I rise, and weeping silently, I go.My fear is great, my love is greater still.Better oblivion than the love I know,Kinder than Phaon's is the blue wave's will.Ye favouring breezes, guard me on this day,Love, lend your pinions, waft me o'er the seaWhere, lovely Phœbus, on thy shrine I'll layMy lyre, with this inscription unto thee:"Sappho to Phœbus consecrates her lyre,Unto the God the gift, the fire to fire."IIIAlas! and woe is me.But must I go?O Phaon, Phœbus' self to me is lessThan Phaon—will you cast me down belowAll broken, for the cruel rocks to pressThis breast, that loved thee, ruined?—Ah! the songBorn of the Muses leaves me and the lyreIs voiceless—they no more to me belong,And in this darkness dies the heavenly fire.Farewell, ye girls of Lesbos, fare ye well;No more the groves shall answer to my song,No more these hands shall wake the lyre to tellOf Love, of Life—to Phaon they belong,And he has fled.O Loveliness, return,Make once again my soul to sing in joy,Feed once again this heart with fires that burn,Gods! can no prayers avail but to destroy,No songs bring back the lost, no sighs recallThe lost that was my love, my life, my all?Return! Return! Raise to the wind thy sail,Across the sea bring back to me the years,Eros shall lend to thee the favouring gale,The track is sure where Aphrodite steers.Let thy white sail be lifted on the rimOf sky that marks the dark dividing seas.Failing that far-off sail, remain the dimBlue depths where once Deucalion found release.Failing that far-off sail, the waves shall giveDeath, or Forgetfulness, whilst still I live.