@3Scene—the Promontory of Leucadia@1. THIS is the spot:—'Tis here tradition says That hopeless love from this high towering rock Leaps headlong to oblivion or to death. Oh, 'tis a giddy height! my dizzy head Swims at the precipice—'tis death to fall! Lie still, thou coward heart! this is no time To shake with thy strong throbs the frame convulsed. To die,—to be at rest,—oh, pleasant thought! Perchance to leap and live; the soul all still, And the wild tempest of the passions husht In one deep calm; the heart, no more diseased By the quick ague fits of hope and fear, Quietly cold; Presiding powers, look down! In vain to you I poured my earnest prayers, In vain I sung your praises: chiefly thou, Venus, ungrateful goddess, whom my lyre Hymned with such full devotion! Lesbian groves, Witness how often, at the languid hour Of summer twilight, to the melting song Ye gave your choral echoes. Grecian maids, Who hear with downcast look and flushing cheek That lay of love, bear witness! and ye youths, Who hang enraptured on the empassioned strain, Gazing with eloquent eye, even till the heart Sinks in the deep delirium! and ye, too, Ages unborn, bear witness ye, how hard Her fate who hymn'd the votive hymn in vain! Ungrateful goddess! I have hung my lute In yonder holy pile: my hand no more Shall wake the melodies that failed to move The heart of Phaon—yet when rumour tells How from Leucadia Sappho hurled her down A self-devoted victim,—he may melt Too late in pity, obstinate to love. O haunt his midnight dreams, black Nemesis! Whom, self-conceiving in the inmost depths Of chaos, blackest night long-labouring bore, When the stern destinies, her elder brood, And shapeless death, from that more monstrous birth Leapt shuddering? haunt his slumbers, Nemesis! Scorch with the fires of Phlegethon his heart, Till helpless, hopeless, heaven-abandoned wretch, He, too, shall seek beneath the unfathomed deep To hide him from thy fury. How the sea Far distant glitters as the sun-beams smile And gaily wanton o'er its heaving breast! Phœbus shines forth, nor wears one cloud to mourn His votary's sorrows. God of day, shine on;— By men despised, forsaken by the Gods, I supplicate no more. How many a day, O pleasant Lesbos! in thy secret streams Delighted have I plunged, from the hot sun Screened by the o'er-arching grove's delightful shade, And pillowed on the waters! Now the waves Shall chill me to repose. Tremendous height! Scarce to the brink will these rebellious limbs Support me. Hark! how the rude deep below Roars round the rugged base, as if it called Its long-reluctant victim! I will come. One leap, and all is over! The deep rest Of death, or tranquil apathy's dead calm, Welcome alike to me. Away, vain fears! Phaon is cold, and why should Sappho live? Phaon is cold, or with some fairer one— Thought worse than death! [@3She throws herself from the precipice@1. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A PRAYER IN SPRING by ROBERT FROST THE CUMBERLAND [MARCH 8, 1862] by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE WORKHOUSE by GEORGE ROBERT SIMS DEJECTION by GRACE E. ALBRIGHT WILD PLUM BLOSSOMS by EVA K. ANGLESBURG THE ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH: BOOK 2. THE GASTRIC MUSE by JOHN ARMSTRONG SILVER ANNIVERSARY by BEULAH ALLYNE BELL |