Of all the youths that grac'd our Lesbian isle He, only he, my heart propitious found, So soft his language, and so sweet his smile, Heaven was my own when Phaon clasp'd me round! But soon, too soon, the faithless lover fled To wander on some distant barbarous shore-- Who knows if Phaon is alive or dead, Or wretched Sappho shall behold him more. _Ismenius_ As late in fair Sicilia's groves I stray'd, Charm'd with the beauties of the vernal scene I sate me down amid the yew tree's shade, Flowers blooming round, with herbage fresh and green. Not distant far a monument arose Among the trees and form'd of Parian stone, And, as if there some stranger did repose, It stood neglected, and it stood alone. Along its sides dependent ivy crept, The cypress bough, Plutonian green, was near, A sculptur'd Venus on the summit wept, A pensive Cupid dropt the parting tear. Strains deep engrav'd on every side I read, How Phaon died upon that foreign shore-- Sappho, I think your Phaon must be dead, Then hear the strains that do his fate deplore: Thou swain that lov'st the morning air, To those embowering trees repair, Forsake thy sleep at early dawn. And of this landscape to grow fonder, Still, O still persist to wander Up and down the flowery lawn; And as you there enraptur'd rove From hill to hill, from grove to grove, Pensive now and quite alone, Cast thine eye upon this stone, Read its melancholy moan; And if you can refuse a tear To the youth that slumbers here, Whom the Lesbians held so dear, Nature calls thee not her own. Echo, hasten to my aid! Tell the woods and tell the waves, Tell the far off mountain caves (Wrapt in solitary shade); Tell them in high tragic numbers, That beneath this marble tomb, Shrouded in unceasing gloom Phaon, youthful Phaon, slumbers, By Sicilian swains deplor'd-- That a narrow urn restrains Him who charm'd our pleasing plains, Him, whom every nymph ador'd. Tell the woods and tell the waves, Tell the mossy mountain caves, Tell them, if none will hear beside, How our lovely Phaon died. In that season when the sun Bids his glowing charioteer Phoebus, native of the sphere, High the burning zenith run; Then our much lamented swain, O'er the sunny, scorched plain, Hunting with a chosen train, Slew the monsters of the waste From those gloomy caverns chac'd Round stupendous Etna plac'd.-- Conquer'd by the solar beam At last he came to yonder stream; Panting, thirsting there he lay On this fatal summer's day, While his locks of raven jett Were on his temples dripping wet; The gentle stream ran purling by O'er the pebbles, pleasantly, Tempting him to drink and die-- He drank indeed--but never thought Death was in the gelid draught!-- Soon it chill'd his boiling veins, Soon this glory of the plains Left the nymphs and left the swains,