THE LAST HOUR OF SAPPHO.

———

BY E. ANNA LEWIS.

———

THE PROMONTORY OF LEUCADIA.

This is the spot—’tis here tradition says,

That hopeless love from this high towering rook

Leaped headlong to oblivion, or to death.

Oh, ’tis a giddy height! my dizzy head

Swims at the precipice!—’tis death to fall.

Southey.

My life is in its last hour . . . .

——————farewell, ye opening heavens!

Look not upon me thus reproachfully—

Ye were not meant for me—earth! take these atoms!

Manfred.

I.

The sun was sinking from soft Hella’s shore,

Yet lingering still, as if he loved to pour

His beams o’er towers and temples then sublime,

But mouldering now beneath the tooth of Time;

To kiss the sloping hills, and myrtle boughs,

And flowers, and streams, and Lesbian maiden’s brows,

As they were warbling ’long the sultry vale

Like blithesome birds, or lisping some love tale:

Slowly he sunk, while far the deep waves rolled

Beneath his fiery track, like molten gold;

The spire, and minaret from the distant dome,

And castle hoar, and fane, and royal home;

The olive grove, the dark majestic palm,

The cypress sadd’ning in the pensive calm,

And in the liquid distance many an isle

Gleamed in his yellow beams and parting smile;

And there the lowing herds adown the hill

Were winding to their homes by glade and rill;

The weary peasants by their cabin door

To their shrill pipes their simple idyls pour;

Maidens reclining ’neath the spreading trees,

Bathe their dark brows in the refreshing breeze,

Send their wild mirth along the vales afar,

And greet with glowing eyes the evening star—

O, who would deem at such soft twilight time

Sorrow could rear her throne in that delightful clime.

II.

High on Leucadia’s famed and jutting rock,

Whose rugged base doth scorn the fearful shock

Of ocean’s waves, half-veiled in evening shade,

Sat Lesbian Sappho all for death arrayed:

Around her beauteous form her tunic flung,

And her dark tresses long and flowing hung

Down to the rock, steeped in the briny dew,

And gently waving as the breezes blew

Along the lea. One small hand held her lute,

The other rested on its strings all mute

As they had never breathed one thrilling song

Of fervent love, or anguish cherished long.

Her swollen eyes, dejected, had not wept,

Though her past life in one dark tissue swept

Before her now—“I would sing one song more—

One wild, undying strain, ere life be o’er;

And I would gather in this latest theme

My sufferings—my heart’s benighted dream,

This fierce, consuming flame that racks my soul,

So that when Phaon glances o’er the scroll

I leave, my fate may flash upon his heart

Swift as from clouds the long pent lightnings start:—

Awake, my soul! nor yet within me die!

Draw back the veil from thy deep agony;

And chant but one song more—one sad farewell

To love and life:—oh! breathe in it thy knell!

Thy requiem—a dagger make each tone—

To pierce false Phaon’s heart when I am gone!”

She said; then swept its straining chords—but fleet

As struck, her lute fell shattered at her feet.

She gazed upon it as it quivering lay,

And felt that thus her hopes had ever passed away.

III.

Upon that melting scene, those glowing skies.

She cast around her sad and swimming eyes,

And to them breathed one silent, long farewell;

For in her earlier years they held a spell

Upon her lute, and she had of them sung

Ere darker passions had her bosom wrung.

Turning far thence, she gazed across the sea.

To where young Phaon dwelt—bright Sicily;

Then her heart swelled—to every wo awake.

And beat the narrow cage it could not break—

“Yes—yes—inconstant Phaon! thou art there

Rejoicing, heedless of my lone despair—

I see thee in the laurel-grove—thy noble form

Move on—a maiden hanging on thine arm,

And drinking thy sweet words, erst breathed to me—

Forsake me, reason—thought—and memory!—

I see thee in the gay Sicilian dance,

Bending upon the fair thy tender glance;

Where jewels gleam, and where soft beauty glows;

The song swells high, the crowned goblet flows;

Thy smile—my heart’s once light upon thy brow;

I see thee by a beauteous maiden now—

Love’s fickle vows—thy witching flatteries hear,

As thou dost breathe them in her willing ear.

O misery! why am I thus awake?

Sad heart of mine, oh! wilt thou never break?

There’s but one remedy far such deep wo;

A fearful antidote—but be it so!

And must I go?—from thee no farewell sigh;

No word to soothe my last keen agony;

No smile to cheer me in the hour of death?—

Oh! for some power, swift as the tempest’s breath,

To catch my dying shriek as I depart,

And ring it as a death-knell in thy heart.

And yet I would not chide thee, Phaon. No!

But I would wake thee to a sense of wo,

And all the misery that thou hast wrought,

And why a home beneath the waves I sought,

When thou wast far away: may peace be thine!

The gods preserve thee from a fate like mine!

The quick and fevered pulse, the tears that blind,

The heart’s dark void, the canker of the mind;

And if to ’parted spirits power be given,

To leave the high abode they hold in heaven,

Oh, I will guide thy footsteps from all wo,

Thy guardian angel be while lingering here below.

IV.

Phaon, thou wast the fond reality

Of my youth’s cherished dream—the phantasy

That hath beguiled me from my earliest days.

Luring me on—the theme of all my lays,

The pole-star of my heart in grief or joy.

The day-spring of my life, my Deity!

That I might win thy love, and make thee mine—

O dream too pure, too heavenly, too divine

For earth!—I’ve toiled through long and weary years,

In hours I stole from sleep and life’s dull cares,

And earned a laurel for my fading brow,

That will not wither like thy fragile vow;—

Yes, I have swept my lyre through Lesbian isles,

Till it has won from kings their softest smiles;

And royal dames have worshiped where I trod,

As there had been enshrined their favorite god;

The proud have sought my hand—the high of birth

Have knelt to me, as I were not of earth;

But these are nothing, since they fail to move

Thy heart, and gain for me thy constant love.

This was the die on which I staked my all.

And I, alas! have lost, and perish in thy thrall.

V.

And now, to thee, thou wild and mighty sea!

Terrific emblem of futurity!

That in thy restless might dost round me roll,

And chafe thyself like my own troubled soul;

Upon whose fickle bosom none can trace

The pathways of the dead unto their place

Of endless rest. From blighting storms of life,

From my own heart’s corroding fires and strife—

The flame that hath no sure relief but death,

I come to seek for peace, thy waves beneath.

Ope now thy breast, and hide forever there

My lifeless form—my fondness and despair!”

She said, then drew her robe around her close,

And calmly as reclining to repose

At eventide, from that tremendous height,

Headlong descended to eternal night,

On sea-weed beds to rest in slumbers sweet,

The boundless main her tomb, the waves her winding-sheet.