Sappho, it would seem, was endowed with a soul overflowing with acute sensitiveness, that glorious but dangerous gift. Her life, as indicated by the relics of her composition, was a current of perpetual fluctuation, like a troubled billow, now tossed to the stars, and anon buried in the darkest abyss. "To such beings," is the remark of Frederick Schlegel, "the urn of destiny assigns the loftiest or most degrading fate; close as is their inward union, they are, nevertheless, entirely divided, and even in their overflow of harmony, shattered and broken into countless fragments." Few relics of her harp remain, and these are borne down to us on the stream of time, imbued with the lofty tenderness of cureless melancholy. She was of that old Greek temper that wreathed the skeleton with flowers, and to her might be applied the legend which testifies that the nightingales of sweetest song were those whose nests were built nearest to the tomb of Orpheus. The early lyrics of Greece were productions full of wonders. They glowed with the hues of that orient of their origin, and where all forms appear in purple glory; each flower beams like a morning ray fastened to earth, and eagle thoughts soar to the sun on golden wings. Each style of national poetry grew gracefully and erect, like the palm-tree, with its rich yet symmetrical crown; and while in broad day it was fairest to the eye, even in gloom it bore nocturnal charms, as glow-worms illuminated the leaves, and birds of sweetest note perched on the boughs to sing.