My blood was hot wan wine of love,And my song's sound the sound thereof,The sound of the delight of it.
My blood was hot wan wine of love,
And my song's sound the sound thereof,
The sound of the delight of it.
Epigrams and Elegies, Iambics and Monodies, she is also reported to have written. Nine books of her lyric Odes are said to have existed, but it is uncertain how they were composed. The imitations of her style and metre made by Horace are too well known to require more than a passing reference. Some of his odes have been regarded as direct translations from Sappho; notably hisCarm.iii. 12,Miserarum est neque amori dare ludum neque dulci, which Volger compares to her fr.90. Horace looked forward to hearing her in Hades singing plaintively to the girls of her own country (Carm.ii. 13, 14[6]), and in his time
Still breathed the love, still lived the fireTo which the Lesbian tuned her lyre.(Carm.iv. 9. 10.)
Still breathed the love, still lived the fire
To which the Lesbian tuned her lyre.
(Carm.iv. 9. 10.)
Athenaeus says that Chamaeleon, one of the disciples of Aristotle, wrote a book about Sappho; and Strabo says Callias of Lesbos interpreted her songs. Alexander the Sophist used to lecture on her; and Dracon of Stratonica, in the reign of Hadrian, wrote a commentary on her metres.
She wrote in the Aeolic dialect, the form of which Bergk has restored in almost every instance. The absence of rough breathings, the throwing back of the accent, and the use of the digamma (Ϝ) and of many forms and words unknown to ordinary Attic Greek, all testify to this. Three idyls ascribed to Theocrĭtus (cf. fr.65) are imitations of the dialect, metre, and manner of the old Aeolic poets; and the 28th, says Professor Mahaffy, 'is an elegant little address to an ivory spindle which the poet was sending as a present to the wife of his physician friend, Nikias of Cos, and was probably composed on the model of a poem of Sappho.'
Her poems orμέληwere undoubtedly written for recitation with the aid of music; 'they were, in fact,' to quote Professor Mahaffy again, 'the earliest specimens of what is called in modern days theSongorBallad, in which the repetition of short rhythms produces a certain pleasant monotony, easy to remember and easy to understand.'
What Melic poetry like Sappho's actually was is best comprehended in the light of Plato's definition ofmelos, that it is 'compounded out of three things, speech, music, and rhythm.'
Aristoxĕnus, as quoted by Plutarch, ascribes to her the invention of the Mixo-Lydian mode. Mr. William Chappell thinks the plain meaning of Aristoxenus' assertion is merely that she sang softly and plaintively, and at a higher pitch than any of her predecessors. All Greek modes can be exhibited by means of our diatonic scale—by the white keys, for example, omitting the black ones, of our modern pianofortes; the various modes having been merely divisions of the diatonic scale into certain regions each consisting of one octave. The ecclesiastical Mixo-Lydian mode, supposed to be similar to the Greek mode of the same name, is the scale of our G major without the F# or leading note. It was called in the early Christian Church 'the angelic mode,' and is now known as the Seventh of the ecclesiastical or Gregorian modes. The more celebrated instances of the use of this mode in modern church music are Palestrina's four-part motetDies sanctificatus, the AntiphonAsperges meas given in the Roman Gradual, and the Sarum melody ofSanctorum meritisprinted in the Rev. T. Helmore'sHymnal Noted. Thesubjoined example of it is given in Sir George Grove'sDictionary of Music and Musicians:—
Scale of natural notes from G to G'
together with a technical description of its construction.
Sappho is said by Athenaeus, quoting Menaechmus and Aristoxenus, to have been the first of the Greek poets to use the Pēktis (πηκτίς), a foreign instrument of uncertain form, a kind of harp (cf. fr.122), which was played by the fingers without a plectrum. Athenaeus says the Pektis was identical with the Magădis, but in this he was plainly wrong, for Mr. William Chappell has shown that any instrument which was played in octaves was called a Magadis, and when it was in the form of a lyre it had a bridge to divide the strings into two parts, in the ratio of 2 to 1, so that the short part of each string gave a sound just one octave higher than the other. Sappho also mentions (in fr.154) the Barōmos or Barmos, and the Sarbĭtos or Barbĭtos, kinds of many-stringed Lesbian lyres which cannot now be identified.
As to the metres in which Sappho wrote, it is unnecessary to describe them elaborately here. They are discussed in all treatises on Greek or Latin metres, and Neue has treatedof them at great length in his edition of Sappho. Suffice it to say that Bergk has as far as possible arranged the fragments according to their metres, of which I have given indications—often purposely general—in the headings to the various divisions. The metre commonly called after her name was probably not invented by her; it was only called Sapphic because of her frequent use of it. Its strophe is made up thus:
macronmacronmacronmacron over brevemacronmacronmacronmacronmacronmacronmacron over brevemacronmacronmacronmacron over brevemacronmacronmacronmacronmacronmacronmacron over brevemacronmacronmacronmacron over brevemacronmacronmacronmacronmacronmacronmacron over brevemacronmacronmacronmacronmacron over breve
macronmacronmacronmacron over brevemacronmacronmacronmacronmacronmacronmacron over breve
macronmacronmacronmacron over brevemacronmacronmacronmacronmacronmacronmacron over breve
macronmacronmacronmacron over brevemacronmacronmacronmacronmacronmacronmacron over breve
macronmacronmacronmacronmacron over breve
Professor Robinson Ellis, in the preface to his translation of Catullus, gives some examples of Elizabethan renderings of the Sapphic stanza into English; but nothing repeats its rhythm to my ear so well as Swinburne'sSapphics:
All the night sleep came not upon my eyelids,Shed not dew, nor shook nor unclosed a feather,Yet with lips shut close and with eyes of ironStood and beheld me.
All the night sleep came not upon my eyelids,
Shed not dew, nor shook nor unclosed a feather,
Yet with lips shut close and with eyes of iron
Stood and beheld me.
With such lines as these ringing in the reader's ears, he can almost hear Sappho herself singing
Songs that move the heart of the shaken heaven,Songs that break the heart of the earth with pity,Hearing, to hear them.
Songs that move the heart of the shaken heaven,
Songs that break the heart of the earth with pity,
Hearing, to hear them.
In the face of so much testimony to Sappho's genius, and in the presence of every glowing word of hers that has been spared to us, those 'grains of golden sand which the torrent of Time has carried down to us,' as Professor F. T. Palgrave says, there is no need for me to panegyrise the poetess whom the whole world has been long since contented to hold without a parallel. What Sappho wrote, to earn such unchallenged fame, we can only vainly long to know; what still remains for us to judge her by, I am willing to leave my readers to estimate.
I
1
Ποικιλόθρον', ἀθάνατ' Ἀφρόδιτα,παῖ Δίος, δολόπλοκε, λίσσομαί σεμή μ' ἄσαισι μήτ' ὀνίαισι δάμνα,πότνια, θῦμον·ἀλλὰ τυῖδ' ἔλθ', αἴποτα κἀτέρωτατᾶς ἔμας αὔδως ἀΐοισα πήλυιἒκλυες, πάτρος δὲ δόμον λίποισαχρύσιον ἦλθεςἄρμ' ὐποζεύξαισα· κάλοι δέ σ' ἆγονὤκεες στροῦθοι περὶ γᾶς μελαίναςπύκνα δινεῦντες πτέρ' ἀπ' ὠράνω αἴθε-ρας διὰ μέσσω.αἶψα δ' ἐξίκοντο· τὺ δ', ὦ μάκαιρα,μειδιάσαισ' ἀθανάτῳ προσώπῳ,ἤρε', ὄττι δηὖτε πέπονθα κὤττιδηὖτε κάλημι,κὤττι μοι μάλιστα θέλω γένεσθαιμαινόλᾳ θύμῳ· τίνα δηὖτε Πείθωμαῖς ἄγην ἐς σὰν φιλότατα, τίς σ', ὦΨάπφ', ἀδικήει;καὶ γὰρ αἰ φεύγει, ταχέως διώξει,αἰ δὲ δῶρα μὴ δέκετ' ἀλλὰ δώσει,αἰ δὲ μὴ φίλει, ταχέως φιλήσεικωὐκ ἐθέλοισα.ἔλθε μοι καὶ νῦν, χαλεπᾶν δὲ λῦσονἐκ μεριμνᾶν, ὄσσα δὲ μοι τελέσσαιθῦμος ἰμέρρει, τέλεσον· σὺ δ' αὔτασύμμαχος ἔσσο.
Ποικιλόθρον', ἀθάνατ' Ἀφρόδιτα,
παῖ Δίος, δολόπλοκε, λίσσομαί σε
μή μ' ἄσαισι μήτ' ὀνίαισι δάμνα,
πότνια, θῦμον·
ἀλλὰ τυῖδ' ἔλθ', αἴποτα κἀτέρωτα
τᾶς ἔμας αὔδως ἀΐοισα πήλυι
ἒκλυες, πάτρος δὲ δόμον λίποισα
χρύσιον ἦλθες
ἄρμ' ὐποζεύξαισα· κάλοι δέ σ' ἆγον
ὤκεες στροῦθοι περὶ γᾶς μελαίνας
πύκνα δινεῦντες πτέρ' ἀπ' ὠράνω αἴθε-
ρας διὰ μέσσω.
αἶψα δ' ἐξίκοντο· τὺ δ', ὦ μάκαιρα,
μειδιάσαισ' ἀθανάτῳ προσώπῳ,
ἤρε', ὄττι δηὖτε πέπονθα κὤττι
δηὖτε κάλημι,
κὤττι μοι μάλιστα θέλω γένεσθαι
μαινόλᾳ θύμῳ· τίνα δηὖτε Πείθω
μαῖς ἄγην ἐς σὰν φιλότατα, τίς σ', ὦ
Ψάπφ', ἀδικήει;
καὶ γὰρ αἰ φεύγει, ταχέως διώξει,
αἰ δὲ δῶρα μὴ δέκετ' ἀλλὰ δώσει,
αἰ δὲ μὴ φίλει, ταχέως φιλήσει
κωὐκ ἐθέλοισα.
ἔλθε μοι καὶ νῦν, χαλεπᾶν δὲ λῦσον
ἐκ μεριμνᾶν, ὄσσα δὲ μοι τελέσσαι
θῦμος ἰμέρρει, τέλεσον· σὺ δ' αὔτα
σύμμαχος ἔσσο.
Immortal Aphrodite of the broidered throne, daughter of Zeus, weaver of wiles, I pray thee break not my spirit with anguish and distress, O Queen. But come hither, if ever before thou didst hear my voice afar, and listen, and leaving thy father's golden house camest with chariot yoked, and fair fleet sparrows drew thee, flapping fast their wings around the dark earth, from heaven through mid sky. Quickly arrived they; and thou, blessed one, smiling with immortal countenance, didst ask What now is befallen me, and Why now I call, and What I in my mad heart most desire to see. 'What Beauty now wouldst thou draw to love thee? Who wrongs thee, Sappho? For even if she flies she shall soon follow, and if she rejects gifts shall yet give, and if she loves not shall soon love, however loth.' Come, I pray thee, now too, and release me from cruel cares; and all that my heart desires to accomplish, accomplish thou, and be thyself my ally.
A HYMN TO VENUS.
O Venus, beauty of the skies,To whom a thousand temples rise,Gaily false in gentle smiles,Full of love-perplexing wiles;O goddess, from my heart removeThe wasting cares and pains of love.If ever thou hast kindly heardA song in soft distress preferred,Propitious to my tuneful vow,O gentle goddess, hear me now.Descend, thou bright immortal guest,In all thy radiant charms confessed.Thou once didst leave almighty JoveAnd all the golden roofs above;The car thy wanton sparrows drew,Hovering in air they lightly flew;As to my bower they winged their wayI saw their quivering pinions play.The birds dismissed (while you remain)Bore back their empty car again:Then you, with looks divinely mild,In every heavenly feature smiled,And asked what new complaints I made,And why I called you to my aid?What frenzy in my bosom raged,And by what cure to be assuaged?What gentle youth I would allure,Whom in my artful toils secure?Who does thy tender heart subdue,Tell me, my Sappho, tell me who?Though now he shuns thy longing arms,He soon shall court thy slighted charms;Though now thy offerings he despise,He soon to thee shall sacrifice;Though now he freeze, he soon shall burn,And be thy victim in his turn.Celestial visitant, once moreThy needful presence I implore.In pity come, and ease my grief,Bring my distempered soul relief,Favour thy suppliant's hidden fires,And give me all my heart desires.Ambrose Philips, 1711.
O Venus, beauty of the skies,
To whom a thousand temples rise,
Gaily false in gentle smiles,
Full of love-perplexing wiles;
O goddess, from my heart remove
The wasting cares and pains of love.
If ever thou hast kindly heard
A song in soft distress preferred,
Propitious to my tuneful vow,
O gentle goddess, hear me now.
Descend, thou bright immortal guest,
In all thy radiant charms confessed.
Thou once didst leave almighty Jove
And all the golden roofs above;
The car thy wanton sparrows drew,
Hovering in air they lightly flew;
As to my bower they winged their way
I saw their quivering pinions play.
The birds dismissed (while you remain)
Bore back their empty car again:
Then you, with looks divinely mild,
In every heavenly feature smiled,
And asked what new complaints I made,
And why I called you to my aid?
What frenzy in my bosom raged,
And by what cure to be assuaged?
What gentle youth I would allure,
Whom in my artful toils secure?
Who does thy tender heart subdue,
Tell me, my Sappho, tell me who?
Though now he shuns thy longing arms,
He soon shall court thy slighted charms;
Though now thy offerings he despise,
He soon to thee shall sacrifice;
Though now he freeze, he soon shall burn,
And be thy victim in his turn.
Celestial visitant, once more
Thy needful presence I implore.
In pity come, and ease my grief,
Bring my distempered soul relief,
Favour thy suppliant's hidden fires,
And give me all my heart desires.
Ambrose Philips, 1711.
TO THE GODDESS OF LOVE.
O Venus, daughter of the mighty Jove,Most knowing in the mystery of love,Help me, oh help me, quickly send relief,And suffer not my heart to break with grief.If ever thou didst hear me when I prayed,Come now, my goddess, to thy Sappho's aid.Orisons used, such favour hast thou shewn,From heaven's golden mansions called thee down.See, see, she comes in her cerulean car,Passing the middle regions of the air.Mark how her nimble sparrows stretch the wing,And with uncommon speed their Mistress bring.Arrived, and sparrows loosed, hastens to me;Then smiling asks, What is it troubles thee?Why am I called? Tell me what Sappho wants.Oh, know you not the cause of all my plaints?I love, I burn, and only love require;And nothing less can quench the raging fire.What youth, what raving lover shall I gain?Where is the captive that should wear my chain?Alas, poor Sappho, who is this ingrateProvokes thee so, for love returning hate?Does he now fly thee? He shall soon return;Pursue thee, and with equal ardour burn.Would he no presents at thy hands receive?He will repent it, and more largely give.The force of love no longer can withstand;He must be fond, wholly at thy command.When wilt thou work this change? Now, Venus free,Now ease my mind of so much misery;In this amour my powerful aider be;Make Phaon love, but let him love like me.Herbert, 1713.
O Venus, daughter of the mighty Jove,
Most knowing in the mystery of love,
Help me, oh help me, quickly send relief,
And suffer not my heart to break with grief.
If ever thou didst hear me when I prayed,
Come now, my goddess, to thy Sappho's aid.
Orisons used, such favour hast thou shewn,
From heaven's golden mansions called thee down.
See, see, she comes in her cerulean car,
Passing the middle regions of the air.
Mark how her nimble sparrows stretch the wing,
And with uncommon speed their Mistress bring.
Arrived, and sparrows loosed, hastens to me;
Then smiling asks, What is it troubles thee?
Why am I called? Tell me what Sappho wants.
Oh, know you not the cause of all my plaints?
I love, I burn, and only love require;
And nothing less can quench the raging fire.
What youth, what raving lover shall I gain?
Where is the captive that should wear my chain?
Alas, poor Sappho, who is this ingrate
Provokes thee so, for love returning hate?
Does he now fly thee? He shall soon return;
Pursue thee, and with equal ardour burn.
Would he no presents at thy hands receive?
He will repent it, and more largely give.
The force of love no longer can withstand;
He must be fond, wholly at thy command.
When wilt thou work this change? Now, Venus free,
Now ease my mind of so much misery;
In this amour my powerful aider be;
Make Phaon love, but let him love like me.
Herbert, 1713.
HYMN TO VENUS.
Immortal Venus, throned aboveIn radiant beauty, child of Jove,O skilled in every art of loveAnd artful snare;Dread power, to whom I bend the knee,Release my soul and set it freeFrom bonds of piercing agonyAnd gloomy care.Yet come thyself, if e'er, benign,Thy listening ears thou didst inclineTo my rude lay, the starry shineOf Jove's court leaving,In chariot yoked with coursers fair,Thine own immortal birds that bearThee swift to earth, the middle airWith bright wings cleaving.Soon they were sped—and thou, most blest,In thine own smiles ambrosial dressed,Didst ask what griefs my mind oppressed—What meant my song—What end my frenzied thoughts pursue—For what loved youth I spread anewMy amorous nets—'Who, Sappho, who'Hath done thee wrong?'What though he fly, he'll soon return—'Still press thy gifts, though now he spurn;'Heed not his coldness—soon he'll burn,'E'en though thou chide.'—And saidst thou thus, dread goddess? Oh,Come then once more to ease my woe:Grant all, and thy great self bestow,My shield and guide!John Herman Merivale, 1833.
Immortal Venus, throned above
In radiant beauty, child of Jove,
O skilled in every art of love
And artful snare;
Dread power, to whom I bend the knee,
Release my soul and set it free
From bonds of piercing agony
And gloomy care.
Yet come thyself, if e'er, benign,
Thy listening ears thou didst incline
To my rude lay, the starry shine
Of Jove's court leaving,
In chariot yoked with coursers fair,
Thine own immortal birds that bear
Thee swift to earth, the middle air
With bright wings cleaving.
Soon they were sped—and thou, most blest,
In thine own smiles ambrosial dressed,
Didst ask what griefs my mind oppressed—
What meant my song—
What end my frenzied thoughts pursue—
For what loved youth I spread anew
My amorous nets—'Who, Sappho, who
'Hath done thee wrong?
'What though he fly, he'll soon return—
'Still press thy gifts, though now he spurn;
'Heed not his coldness—soon he'll burn,
'E'en though thou chide.'
—And saidst thou thus, dread goddess? Oh,
Come then once more to ease my woe:
Grant all, and thy great self bestow,
My shield and guide!
John Herman Merivale, 1833.
HYMN TO APHRODITE.
Golden-throned beyond the sky,Jove-born immortality:Hear and heal a suppliant's pain:Let not love be love in vain!Come, as once to Love's imploringAccents of a maid's adoring,Wafted 'neath the golden domeBore thee from thy father's home;When far off thy coming glowed,Whirling down th' aethereal road,On thy dove-drawn progress glancing,'Mid the light of wings advancing;And at once the radiant hueOf immortal smiles I knew;Heard the voice of reassuranceAsk the tale of love's endurance:—'Why such prayer? And who for thee,Sappho, should be touch'd by me;Passion-charmed in frenzy strong—Who hath wrought my Sappho wrong?'—Soon for flight pursuit wilt find,Proffer'd gifts for gifts declined;Soon, thro' long reluctance earn'd,Love refused be Love return'd.'—To thy suppliant so returning,Consummate a maiden's yearning:Love, from deep despair set free,Championing to victory!F. T. Palgrave, 1854.
Golden-throned beyond the sky,
Jove-born immortality:
Hear and heal a suppliant's pain:
Let not love be love in vain!
Come, as once to Love's imploring
Accents of a maid's adoring,
Wafted 'neath the golden dome
Bore thee from thy father's home;
When far off thy coming glowed,
Whirling down th' aethereal road,
On thy dove-drawn progress glancing,
'Mid the light of wings advancing;
And at once the radiant hue
Of immortal smiles I knew;
Heard the voice of reassurance
Ask the tale of love's endurance:—
'Why such prayer? And who for thee,
Sappho, should be touch'd by me;
Passion-charmed in frenzy strong—
Who hath wrought my Sappho wrong?
'—Soon for flight pursuit wilt find,
Proffer'd gifts for gifts declined;
Soon, thro' long reluctance earn'd,
Love refused be Love return'd.'
—To thy suppliant so returning,
Consummate a maiden's yearning:
Love, from deep despair set free,
Championing to victory!
F. T. Palgrave, 1854.
Splendour-throned Queen, immortal Aphrodite,Daughter of Jove, Enchantress, I implore theeVex not my soul with agonies and anguish;Slay me not, Goddess!Come in thy pity—come, if I have prayed thee;Come at the cry of my sorrow; in the old timesOft thou hast heard, and left thy father's heaven,Left the gold houses,Yoking thy chariot. Swiftly did the doves fly,Swiftly they brought thee, waving plumes of wonder—Waving their dark plumes all across the aether,All down the azure.Very soon they lighted. Then didst thou, Divine one,Laugh a bright laugh from lips and eyes immortal,Ask me, 'What ailed me—wherefore out of heaven'Thus I had called thee?'What it was made me madden in my heart so?'Question me, smiling—say to me, 'My Sappho,'Who is it wrongs thee? Tell me who refuses'Thee, vainly sighing.''Be it who it may be, he that flies shall follow;'He that rejects gifts, he shall bring thee many;'He that hates now shall love thee dearly, madly—'Aye, though thou wouldst not.'So once again come, Mistress; and, releasingMe from my sadness, give me what I sue for,Grant me my prayer, and be as heretofore nowFriend and protectress.Edwin Arnold, 1869.
Splendour-throned Queen, immortal Aphrodite,
Daughter of Jove, Enchantress, I implore thee
Vex not my soul with agonies and anguish;
Slay me not, Goddess!
Come in thy pity—come, if I have prayed thee;
Come at the cry of my sorrow; in the old times
Oft thou hast heard, and left thy father's heaven,
Left the gold houses,
Yoking thy chariot. Swiftly did the doves fly,
Swiftly they brought thee, waving plumes of wonder—
Waving their dark plumes all across the aether,
All down the azure.
Very soon they lighted. Then didst thou, Divine one,
Laugh a bright laugh from lips and eyes immortal,
Ask me, 'What ailed me—wherefore out of heaven
'Thus I had called thee?
'What it was made me madden in my heart so?'
Question me, smiling—say to me, 'My Sappho,
'Who is it wrongs thee? Tell me who refuses
'Thee, vainly sighing.'
'Be it who it may be, he that flies shall follow;
'He that rejects gifts, he shall bring thee many;
'He that hates now shall love thee dearly, madly—
'Aye, though thou wouldst not.'
So once again come, Mistress; and, releasing
Me from my sadness, give me what I sue for,
Grant me my prayer, and be as heretofore now
Friend and protectress.
Edwin Arnold, 1869.
Beautiful-throned, immortal Aphrodite,Daughter of Zeus, beguiler, I implore thee,Weigh me not down with weariness and anguishO thou most holy!Come to me now, if ever thou in kindnessHearkenedst my words,—and often hast thou hearkened—Heeding, and coming from the mansions goldenOf thy great Father,Yoking thy chariot, borne by the most lovelyConsecrated birds, with dusky-tinted pinions,Waving swift wings from utmost heights of heavenThrough the mid-ether;Swiftly they vanished, leaving thee, O goddess,Smiling, with face immortal in its beauty,Asking why I grieved, and why in utter longingI had dared call thee;Asking what I sought, thus hopeless in desiring,Wildered in brain, and spreading nets of passion—Alas, for whom? and saidst thou, 'Who has harmed thee?'O my poor Sappho!'Though now he flies, ere long he shall pursue thee;'Fearing thy gifts, he too in turn shall bring them;'Loveless to-day, to-morrow he shall woo thee,'Though thou shouldst spurn him.'Thus seek me now, O holy Aphrodite!Save me from anguish; give me all I ask for,Gifts at thy hand; and thine shall be the glory,Sacred protector!T. W. Higginson, 1871.
Beautiful-throned, immortal Aphrodite,
Daughter of Zeus, beguiler, I implore thee,
Weigh me not down with weariness and anguish
O thou most holy!
Come to me now, if ever thou in kindness
Hearkenedst my words,—and often hast thou hearkened—
Heeding, and coming from the mansions golden
Of thy great Father,
Yoking thy chariot, borne by the most lovely
Consecrated birds, with dusky-tinted pinions,
Waving swift wings from utmost heights of heaven
Through the mid-ether;
Swiftly they vanished, leaving thee, O goddess,
Smiling, with face immortal in its beauty,
Asking why I grieved, and why in utter longing
I had dared call thee;
Asking what I sought, thus hopeless in desiring,
Wildered in brain, and spreading nets of passion—
Alas, for whom? and saidst thou, 'Who has harmed thee?
'O my poor Sappho!
'Though now he flies, ere long he shall pursue thee;
'Fearing thy gifts, he too in turn shall bring them;
'Loveless to-day, to-morrow he shall woo thee,
'Though thou shouldst spurn him.'
Thus seek me now, O holy Aphrodite!
Save me from anguish; give me all I ask for,
Gifts at thy hand; and thine shall be the glory,
Sacred protector!
T. W. Higginson, 1871.
O fickle-souled, deathless one, Aphrodite,Daughter of Zeus, weaver of wiles, I pray thee,Lady august, never with pangs and bitterAnguish affray me!But hither come often, as erst with favourMy invocations pitifully heeding,Leaving thy sire's golden abode, thou camestDown to me speeding.Yoked to thy car, delicate sparrows drew theeFleetly to earth, fluttering fast their pinions,From heaven's height through middle ether's liquidSunny dominions.Soon they arrived; thou, O divine one, smilingSweetly from that countenance all immortal,Askedst my grief, wherefore I so had called theeFrom the bright portal?What my wild soul languished for, frenzy-stricken?'Who thy love now is it that ill requiteth,Sappho? and who thee and thy tender yearningWrongfully slighteth?Though he now fly, quickly he shall pursue thee—Scorns he thy gifts? Soon he shall freely offer—Loves he not? Soon, even wert thou unwilling,Love shall he proffer.'Come to me then, loosen me from my torment,All my heart's wish unto fulfilment guide thou,Grant and fulfil! And an ally most trustyEver abide thou.Moreton John Walhouse, inTheGentleman's Magazine, 1877.
O fickle-souled, deathless one, Aphrodite,
Daughter of Zeus, weaver of wiles, I pray thee,
Lady august, never with pangs and bitter
Anguish affray me!
But hither come often, as erst with favour
My invocations pitifully heeding,
Leaving thy sire's golden abode, thou camest
Down to me speeding.
Yoked to thy car, delicate sparrows drew thee
Fleetly to earth, fluttering fast their pinions,
From heaven's height through middle ether's liquid
Sunny dominions.
Soon they arrived; thou, O divine one, smiling
Sweetly from that countenance all immortal,
Askedst my grief, wherefore I so had called thee
From the bright portal?
What my wild soul languished for, frenzy-stricken?
'Who thy love now is it that ill requiteth,
Sappho? and who thee and thy tender yearning
Wrongfully slighteth?
Though he now fly, quickly he shall pursue thee—
Scorns he thy gifts? Soon he shall freely offer—
Loves he not? Soon, even wert thou unwilling,
Love shall he proffer.'
Come to me then, loosen me from my torment,
All my heart's wish unto fulfilment guide thou,
Grant and fulfil! And an ally most trusty
Ever abide thou.
Moreton John Walhouse, inThe
Gentleman's Magazine, 1877.
Glittering-throned, undying Aphrodite,Wile-weaving daughter of high Zeus, I pray thee,Tame not my soul with heavy woe, dread mistress,Nay, nor with anguish!But hither come, if ever erst of old timeThou didst incline, and listenedst to my crying,And from thy father's palace down descending,Camest with goldenChariot yoked: thee fair swift-flying sparrowsOver dark earth with multitudinous fluttering,Pinion on pinion, thorough middle etherDown from heaven hurried.Quickly they came like light, and thou, blest lady,Smiling with clear undying eyes didst ask meWhat was the woe that troubled me, and whereforeI had cried to thee:What thing I longed for to appease my franticSoul: and Whom now must I persuade, thou askedst,Whom must entangle to thy love, and who now,Sappho, hath wronged thee?Yea, for if now he shun, he soon shall chase thee;Yea, if he take not gifts, he soon shall give them;Yea, if he love not, soon shall he begin toLove thee, unwilling.Come to me now too, and from tyrannous sorrowFree me, and all things that my soul desires toHave done, do for me, queen, and let thyself tooBe my great ally!J. Addington Symonds, 1893.
Glittering-throned, undying Aphrodite,
Wile-weaving daughter of high Zeus, I pray thee,
Tame not my soul with heavy woe, dread mistress,
Nay, nor with anguish!
But hither come, if ever erst of old time
Thou didst incline, and listenedst to my crying,
And from thy father's palace down descending,
Camest with golden
Chariot yoked: thee fair swift-flying sparrows
Over dark earth with multitudinous fluttering,
Pinion on pinion, thorough middle ether
Down from heaven hurried.
Quickly they came like light, and thou, blest lady,
Smiling with clear undying eyes didst ask me
What was the woe that troubled me, and wherefore
I had cried to thee:
What thing I longed for to appease my frantic
Soul: and Whom now must I persuade, thou askedst,
Whom must entangle to thy love, and who now,
Sappho, hath wronged thee?
Yea, for if now he shun, he soon shall chase thee;
Yea, if he take not gifts, he soon shall give them;
Yea, if he love not, soon shall he begin to
Love thee, unwilling.
Come to me now too, and from tyrannous sorrow
Free me, and all things that my soul desires to
Have done, do for me, queen, and let thyself too
Be my great ally!
J. Addington Symonds, 1893.
Besides these complete versions—many others there are, but these are by far thebest—compare the following stanza out of Akenside'sOde on Lyric Poetry(about 1745):—
But lo, to Sappho's melting airsDescends the radiant queen of Love:She smiles, and asks what fonder caresHer suppliant's plaintive measures move:Why is my faithful maid distressed?Who, Sappho, wounds thy tender breast?Say, flies he?—Soon he shall pursue.Shuns he thy gifts?—He soon shall give.Slights he thy sorrows?—He shall grieve,And soon to all thy wishes bow.
But lo, to Sappho's melting airs
Descends the radiant queen of Love:
She smiles, and asks what fonder cares
Her suppliant's plaintive measures move:
Why is my faithful maid distressed?
Who, Sappho, wounds thy tender breast?
Say, flies he?—Soon he shall pursue.
Shuns he thy gifts?—He soon shall give.
Slights he thy sorrows?—He shall grieve,
And soon to all thy wishes bow.
And Swinburne's paraphrase—
For I beheld in sleep the light that isIn her high place in Paphos, heard the kissOf body and soul that mix with eager tearsAnd laughter stinging through the eyes and ears:Saw Love, as burning flame from crown to feet,Imperishable, upon her storied seat;Clear eyelids lifted toward the north and south,A mind of many colours, and a mouthOf many tunes and kisses; and she bowed,With all her subtle face laughing aloud,Bowed down upon me, saying, 'Who doth thee wrong,Sappho?' but thou—thy body is the song,Thy mouth the music; thou art more than I,Though my voice die not till the whole world die;Though men that hear it madden; though love weep,Though nature change, though shame be charmed to sleep.Ay, wilt thou slay me lest I kiss thee dead?Yet the queen laughed from her sweet heart and said:'Even she that flies shall follow for thy sake,And she shall give thee gifts that would not take,Shall kiss that would not kiss thee' (yea, kiss me)'When thou wouldst not'—when I would not kiss thee!Anactoria, p. 67 f.
For I beheld in sleep the light that is
In her high place in Paphos, heard the kiss
Of body and soul that mix with eager tears
And laughter stinging through the eyes and ears:
Saw Love, as burning flame from crown to feet,
Imperishable, upon her storied seat;
Clear eyelids lifted toward the north and south,
A mind of many colours, and a mouth
Of many tunes and kisses; and she bowed,
With all her subtle face laughing aloud,
Bowed down upon me, saying, 'Who doth thee wrong,
Sappho?' but thou—thy body is the song,
Thy mouth the music; thou art more than I,
Though my voice die not till the whole world die;
Though men that hear it madden; though love weep,
Though nature change, though shame be charmed to sleep.
Ay, wilt thou slay me lest I kiss thee dead?
Yet the queen laughed from her sweet heart and said:
'Even she that flies shall follow for thy sake,
And she shall give thee gifts that would not take,
Shall kiss that would not kiss thee' (yea, kiss me)
'When thou wouldst not'—when I would not kiss thee!
Anactoria, p. 67 f.
And his—
O thou of divers-coloured mind,[7]O thouDeathless, God's daughter subtle-souled—lo now,Now to the song above all songs, in flightHigher than the day-star's height,And sweet as sound the moving wings of night!Thou of the divers-coloured seat—beholdHer very song of old!—O deathless, O Gods daughter subtle-souled!* * * * *Child of God, close craftswoman, I beseech thee;Bid not ache nor agony break nor master,Lady, my spirit.Songs of the Spring-tides: On the Cliffs.
O thou of divers-coloured mind,[7]O thou
Deathless, God's daughter subtle-souled—lo now,
Now to the song above all songs, in flight
Higher than the day-star's height,
And sweet as sound the moving wings of night!
Thou of the divers-coloured seat—behold
Her very song of old!—
O deathless, O Gods daughter subtle-souled!
* * * * *
Child of God, close craftswoman, I beseech thee;
Bid not ache nor agony break nor master,
Lady, my spirit.
Songs of the Spring-tides: On the Cliffs.
As well as Frederick Tennyson's—
Come to me; what I seek in vainBring thou; into my spirit sendPeace after care, balm after pain;And be my friend.
Come to me; what I seek in vain
Bring thou; into my spirit send
Peace after care, balm after pain;
And be my friend.
Dionysius of Halicarnassus, writing at Rome about 25B.C., quotes this, commonly calledThe Ode to Aphrodite, as a perfect illustration of the elaborately finished style of poetry, showing in detail how its grace and beauty lie in the subtle harmony between the words and the ideas. Certain lines of it, though nowhere else the whole, are preserved by Hephaestion and other authors.
2
Φαίνεταί μοι κήνος ἴσος θέοισινἔμμεν ὤνηρ, ὄστις ἐναντίος τοιἰζάνει, καὶ πλασίον ἆδυ φωνεύ-σας ὑπακούεικαὶ γελαίσας ἰμερόεν, τό μοι μάνκαρδίαν ἐν στήθεσιν ἐπτόασεν·ὡς γὰρ εὔιδον βροχέως σε, φώναςοὐδὲν ἔτ' εἴκει·ἀλλὰ κὰμ μὲν γλῶσσα ἔαγε, λέπτον δ'αὔτικα χρῷ πῦρ ὐπαδεδρόμακεν,ὀππάτεσσι δ' οὐδὲν ὄρημ', ἐπιρρόμ-βεισι δ' ἄκουαι.ἀ δέ μίδρως κακχέεται, τρόμος δέπαῖσαν ἄγρει, χλωροτέρα δὲ ποίαςἔμμι, τεθνάκην δ' ὀλίγω 'πιδεύηςφαίνομαι [ἄλλα].ἀλλὰ πᾶν τόλματον, [ἐπεὶ καὶ πένητα].
Φαίνεταί μοι κήνος ἴσος θέοισιν
ἔμμεν ὤνηρ, ὄστις ἐναντίος τοι
ἰζάνει, καὶ πλασίον ἆδυ φωνεύ-
σας ὑπακούει
καὶ γελαίσας ἰμερόεν, τό μοι μάν
καρδίαν ἐν στήθεσιν ἐπτόασεν·
ὡς γὰρ εὔιδον βροχέως σε, φώνας
οὐδὲν ἔτ' εἴκει·
ἀλλὰ κὰμ μὲν γλῶσσα ἔαγε, λέπτον δ'
αὔτικα χρῷ πῦρ ὐπαδεδρόμακεν,
ὀππάτεσσι δ' οὐδὲν ὄρημ', ἐπιρρόμ-
βεισι δ' ἄκουαι.
ἀ δέ μίδρως κακχέεται, τρόμος δέ
παῖσαν ἄγρει, χλωροτέρα δὲ ποίας
ἔμμι, τεθνάκην δ' ὀλίγω 'πιδεύης
φαίνομαι [ἄλλα].
ἀλλὰ πᾶν τόλματον, [ἐπεὶ καὶ πένητα].
That man seems to me peer of gods, who sits in thy presence, and hears close to him thy sweet speech and lovely laughter; that indeed makes my heart flutter in my bosom. For when I see thee but a little, I have no utterance left, my tongue is broken down, and straightway a subtle fire has run under my skin, with my eyes I have no sight, my ears ring, sweat pours down, and a trembling seizes all my body; I am paler than grass, and seem in my madness little better than one dead. But I must dare all, since one so poor...
The famous imitation of this ode by Catullus, li.,Ad Lesbiam—
Ille mi par esse deo videtur,Ille, si fas est, superare divos,Qui sedens adversus identidem teSpectat et auditDulce ridentem, misero quod omnisEripit sensus mihi: nam simul te,Lesbia, aspexi, nihil est super mi* * * * *Lingua sed torpet, tenuis sub artusFlamma demanat, sonitu suopteTintinant aures, gemina tegunturLumina nocte—
Ille mi par esse deo videtur,
Ille, si fas est, superare divos,
Qui sedens adversus identidem te
Spectat et audit
Dulce ridentem, misero quod omnis
Eripit sensus mihi: nam simul te,
Lesbia, aspexi, nihil est super mi
* * * * *
Lingua sed torpet, tenuis sub artus
Flamma demanat, sonitu suopte
Tintinant aures, gemina teguntur
Lumina nocte—
is thus translated by Mr. W. E. Gladstone:—
Him rival to the gods I place,Him loftier yet, if loftier be,Who, Lesbia, sits before thy face,Who listens and who looks on thee;Thee smiling soft. Yet this delightDoth all my sense consign to death;For when thou dawnest on my sight,Ah, wretched! flits my labouring breath.My tongue is palsied. Subtly hidFire creeps me through from limb to limb:My loud ears tingle all unbid:Twin clouds of night mine eyes bedim.
Him rival to the gods I place,
Him loftier yet, if loftier be,
Who, Lesbia, sits before thy face,
Who listens and who looks on thee;
Thee smiling soft. Yet this delight
Doth all my sense consign to death;
For when thou dawnest on my sight,
Ah, wretched! flits my labouring breath.
My tongue is palsied. Subtly hid
Fire creeps me through from limb to limb:
My loud ears tingle all unbid:
Twin clouds of night mine eyes bedim.
and recently by the late Sir R. F. Burton:—
Peer of a god meseemeth he,Nay, passing gods (an that can be!),Who all the while sits facing thee,Sees thee and hearsThy low sweet laughs which (ah me!) dazeMine every sense, and as I gazeUpon thee, Lesbia, o'er me strays. . . . . .My tongue is dulled, my limbs adownFlows subtle flame; with sound its ownRings either ear, and o'er are strownMine eyes with night.
Peer of a god meseemeth he,
Nay, passing gods (an that can be!),
Who all the while sits facing thee,
Sees thee and hears
Thy low sweet laughs which (ah me!) daze
Mine every sense, and as I gaze
Upon thee, Lesbia, o'er me strays
. . . . . .
My tongue is dulled, my limbs adown
Flows subtle flame; with sound its own
Rings either ear, and o'er are strown
Mine eyes with night.
Blest as the immortal gods is he,The youth who fondly sits by thee,And hears and sees thee all the whileSoftly speak and sweetly smile.'Twas this deprived my soul of rest,And raised such tumults in my breast;For while I gazed, in transport tost,My breath was gone, my voice was lost:My bosom glowed; the subtle flameRan quick through all my vital frame;O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung;My ears with hollow murmurs rung.In dewy damps my limbs were chilled;My blood with gentle horror thrilled;My feeble pulse forgot to play;I fainted, sank, and died away.Ambrose Philips, 1711.
Blest as the immortal gods is he,
The youth who fondly sits by thee,
And hears and sees thee all the while
Softly speak and sweetly smile.
'Twas this deprived my soul of rest,
And raised such tumults in my breast;
For while I gazed, in transport tost,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost:
My bosom glowed; the subtle flame
Ran quick through all my vital frame;
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung;
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.
In dewy damps my limbs were chilled;
My blood with gentle horror thrilled;
My feeble pulse forgot to play;
I fainted, sank, and died away.
Ambrose Philips, 1711.
Thy fatal shafts unerring move,I bow before thine altar, LoveI feel thy soft resistless flameGlide swift through all my vital frame.For while I gaze my bosom glows,My blood in tides impetuous flows;Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll,And floods of transports whelm my soul.My faltering tongue attempts in vainIn soothing murmurs to complain;My tongue some secret magic ties,My murmurs sink in broken sighs.Condemned to nurse eternal care,And ever drop the silent tear,Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh,Unfriended live, unpitied die.Smollett, inRoderick Random, 1748.
Thy fatal shafts unerring move,
I bow before thine altar, Love
I feel thy soft resistless flame
Glide swift through all my vital frame.
For while I gaze my bosom glows,
My blood in tides impetuous flows;
Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll,
And floods of transports whelm my soul.
My faltering tongue attempts in vain
In soothing murmurs to complain;
My tongue some secret magic ties,
My murmurs sink in broken sighs.
Condemned to nurse eternal care,
And ever drop the silent tear,
Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh,
Unfriended live, unpitied die.
Smollett, inRoderick Random, 1748.
Blest as the immortal gods is he,The youth whose eyes may look on thee,Whose ears thy tongue's sweet melodyMay still devour.Thou smilest too?—sweet smile, whose charmHas struck my soul with wild alarm,And, when I see thee, bids disarmEach vital power.Speechless I gaze: the flame withinRuns swift o'er all my quivering skin;My eyeballs swim; with dizzy dinMy brain reels round;And cold drops fall; and tremblings frailSeize every limb; and grassy paleI grow; and then—together failBoth sight and sound.John Herman Merivale, 1833.
Blest as the immortal gods is he,
The youth whose eyes may look on thee,
Whose ears thy tongue's sweet melody
May still devour.
Thou smilest too?—sweet smile, whose charm
Has struck my soul with wild alarm,
And, when I see thee, bids disarm
Each vital power.
Speechless I gaze: the flame within
Runs swift o'er all my quivering skin;
My eyeballs swim; with dizzy din
My brain reels round;
And cold drops fall; and tremblings frail
Seize every limb; and grassy pale
I grow; and then—together fail
Both sight and sound.
John Herman Merivale, 1833.
Peer of gods he seemeth to me, the blissfulMan who sits and gazes at thee before him,Close beside thee sits, and in silence hears theeSilverly speaking,Laughing love's low laughter. Oh this, this onlyStirs the troubled heart in my breast to tremble!For should I but see thee a little moment,Straight is my voice hushed;Yea, my tongue is broken, and through and through me'Neath the flesh impalpable fire runs tingling;Nothing see mine eyes, and a noise of roaringWaves in my ear sounds;Sweat runs down in rivers, a tremor seizesAll my limbs, and paler than grass in autumn,Caught by pains of menacing death, I falter,Lost in the love-trance.J. Addington Symonds, 1883.
Peer of gods he seemeth to me, the blissful
Man who sits and gazes at thee before him,
Close beside thee sits, and in silence hears thee
Silverly speaking,
Laughing love's low laughter. Oh this, this only
Stirs the troubled heart in my breast to tremble!
For should I but see thee a little moment,
Straight is my voice hushed;
Yea, my tongue is broken, and through and through me
'Neath the flesh impalpable fire runs tingling;
Nothing see mine eyes, and a noise of roaring
Waves in my ear sounds;
Sweat runs down in rivers, a tremor seizes
All my limbs, and paler than grass in autumn,
Caught by pains of menacing death, I falter,
Lost in the love-trance.
J. Addington Symonds, 1883.
Compare Lord Tennyson:—
I watch thy grace; and in its placeMy heart a charmed slumber keeps,While I muse upon thy face;And a languid fire creepsThrough my veins to all my frame,Dissolvingly and slowly: soonFrom thy rose-red lipsmynameFloweth; and then, as in a swoon,With dinning sound my ears are rife,My tremulous tongue faltereth,I lose my colour, I lose my breath,I drink the cup of a costly deathBrimmed with delicious draughts of warmest life.I die with my delight, beforeI hear what I would hear from thee.Eleänore, 1832.
I watch thy grace; and in its place
My heart a charmed slumber keeps,
While I muse upon thy face;
And a languid fire creeps
Through my veins to all my frame,
Dissolvingly and slowly: soon
From thy rose-red lipsmyname
Floweth; and then, as in a swoon,
With dinning sound my ears are rife,
My tremulous tongue faltereth,
I lose my colour, I lose my breath,
I drink the cup of a costly death
Brimmed with delicious draughts of warmest life.
I die with my delight, before
I hear what I would hear from thee.
Eleänore, 1832.
And—
Last night, when some one spoke his name,From my swift blood that went and cameA thousand little shafts of flameWere shiver'd in my narrow frame.—Fatima.[8]
Last night, when some one spoke his name,
From my swift blood that went and came
A thousand little shafts of flame
Were shiver'd in my narrow frame.—Fatima.[8]
And with line 14, Swinburne's—
Paler than grass in summer.—Sapphics.
Paler than grass in summer.—Sapphics.
and—
Made like white summer-coloured grass.Aholibah.
Made like white summer-coloured grass.
Aholibah.
Longinus, about 250A.D., uses this,The Ode to Anactoria, orTo a beloved Woman, orTo a Maiden, as tradition variously names it, to illustrate the perfection of the Sublime in poetry, calling it 'not one passion, but a congress of passions,' and showing how Sappho had here seized upon the signs of love-frenzy and harmonised them into faultless phrase. Plutarch had, about 60A.D., spoken of this ode as 'mixed with fire,' and quoted Philoxenus as referring to Sappho's 'sweet-voiced songs healing love.'
3
Ἄστερες μὲν ἀμφὶ κάλαν σελάνναναἶψ ἀπυκρύπτοισι φάεννον εἶδος,ὄπποτα πλήθοισα μάλιστα λάμπῃγᾶν [ἐπὶ πᾶσαν]macronmacronmacronmacronἀργυρίαmacronmacronmacronmacron·
Ἄστερες μὲν ἀμφὶ κάλαν σελάνναν
αἶψ ἀπυκρύπτοισι φάεννον εἶδος,
ὄπποτα πλήθοισα μάλιστα λάμπῃ
γᾶν [ἐπὶ πᾶσαν]
macronmacronmacronmacronἀργυρίαmacronmacronmacronmacron·
The stars about the fair moon in their turn hide their bright face when she at about her full lights up all earth with silver.
Planets, that around the beauteous moonAttendant wait, cast into shadeTheir ineffectual lustre, soonAs she, in full-orbed majesty arrayed,Her silver radiance poursUpon this world of ours.J. H. Merivale.
Planets, that around the beauteous moon
Attendant wait, cast into shade
Their ineffectual lustre, soon
As she, in full-orbed majesty arrayed,
Her silver radiance pours
Upon this world of ours.
J. H. Merivale.