Beneath a dark and melancholy grove,
Mix'd with the cypress and the mournful yew,
The charming Sappho lay,
Melting in tears for her lost love
Whom envious fate had stole away.
And thus her words did her deep sighs pursue,
"Thou charming dear, thou better soul of mine,
Belov'd by all the Nine but most by me,
The rival mistress of thy harmony.
How oft did we those raptures prove
Which fed the pamper'd god of love,
And seem'd to gain attention from above,
Whilst list'ning mortals here,
Mov'd by thy skill, attentively drew near.
Envy herself could not forbear.
My mind's all discord, since that mournful day
I ne'er could sing or play.
My harpsichord and lute have long been mute,
A swelling grief siezes on ev'ry string,
And I weep when I should sing.
This only for my pride I find,
Tho' the gods were to me unkind,
They of themselves and heaven took care,
And robb'd this world of what they wanted there."