I go, ye nymphs, where furious love inspires; Let female fears submit to female fires. To rocks and seas I fly from Phaon's hate, 205 And hope from seas and rocks a milder fate. Ye gentle gales, beneath my body blow, And softly lay me on the waves below![33] And thou, kind Love, my sinking limbs sustain, } Spread thy soft wings, and waft me o'er the main, } 210 Nor let a lover's death the guiltless flood profane! } On Phoebus' shrine my harp I'll then bestow, And this inscription shall be placed below, "Here she who sung, to him that did inspire, Sappho to Phoebus consecrates her lyre; 215 What suits with Sappho, Phoebus, suits with thee; The gift, the giver, and the god agree." But why, alas, relentless youth, ah! why To distant seas must tender Sappho fly?[34] Thy charms than those may far more pow'rful be, 220 And Phoebus' self is less a god to me.[35] Ah! canst thou doom me to the rocks and sea, Oh! far more faithless and more hard than they? Ah! canst thou rather see this tender breast Dashed on these rocks, than to thy bosom pressed? 225 This breast which once, in vain! you liked so well;[36] Where the loves played, and where the muses dwell. Alas! the muses now no more inspire, Untuned my lute, and silent is my lyre. My languid numbers have forgot to flow, 230 And fancy sinks beneath a weight of woe. Ye Lesbian virgins, and ye Lesbian dames, Themes of my verse, and objects of my flames, No more your groves with my glad songs shall ring, No more these hands shall touch the trembling string: 235 My Phaon's fled, and I those arts resign: (Wretch that I am, to call that Phaon mine!)[37] Return, fair youth, return, and bring along Joy to my soul, and vigour to my song: Absent from thee, the poet's flame expires; 240 But ah! how fiercely burn the lover's fires! Gods! can no prayers, no sighs, no numbers move One savage heart, or teach it how to love? The winds my prayers, my sighs, my numbers bear,[38] The flying winds have lost them all in air! 245 Oh when, alas! shall more auspicious gales To these fond eyes restore thy welcome sails![39] If you return--ah why these long delays? Poor Sappho dies, while careless Phaon stays. O launch the bark, nor fear the wat'ry plain; 250 Venus for thee shall smooth her native main. O launch thy bark, secure of prosp'rous gales; Cupid for thee shall spread the swelling sails.[40] If you will fly--(yet ah! what cause can be, Too cruel youth, that you should fly from me?) 255 If not from Phaon I must hope for ease,