The Lesbians were so enraptured with her strains, that they raised her to
divine honours, and erected a temple to her, and even stamped their money
with her image.
"Thou! whose impassioned face
The poet loves to trace,
Theme of the sculptor's art, and poet's story,
How many a wandering thought
Thy loveliness hath brought,
Warming the heart with its imagined glory!
Yet, was it History's truth.
That tale of wasted youth,
Of endless grief, and love forsaken, pining?
What wert thou, thou whose woe
The old traditions show,
With Fame's cold light around thee vainly shining!
Did'st thou indeed sit there
In languid lone despair?
Thy harp neglected by thee idly lying?
Thy soft and earnest gaze,
Watching the lingering rays,
In the far west, where Summer-day was dying?
Did'st thou, as day by day,
Rolled heavily away,
And left thee anxious, nerveless and dejected,
Wandering thro' bowers beloved,
Roving where he had roved,
Yearn for his presence, as for one expected?
Did'st thou, with fond wild eyes
Fix'd on the starry skies,
Wait feverishly for each new day to waken?
Trusting some glorious morn
Might witness his return,
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Unwilling to believe thyself forsaken?
And when contrition came,
Chilling that heart of flame,
Did'st thou, O saddest of Earth's grieving daughters,
From the Lucadian steep,
Dash, with a desperate leap,
And hide thyself within the whelming waters?
Such is the tale they tell,
Vain was thy beauty's spell--
Vain all the praise thy song could still inspire,
Though many a happy band,
Rung with less skilful hand,
The borrowed love notes of thy echoing lyre.
Fame, to thy breaking heart,
No comfort could impart,
In vain thy brow the laurel wreath was wearing;
One grief and one alone
Could bow thy bright head down,
--Thou wert a woman, and wert left despairing!"