Oh Reason, vaunted sovereign of the mind—
Thou pompous vision with a sounding name!
Canst thou the soul's rebellious passions tame?
Canst thou in spells the vagrant fancy bind?
Ah no, capricious as the wavering wind
Are sighs of love that dim thy boasted flame,
While Folly's torch consumes the wreath of fame,
And Pleasure's hands the sheaves of truth unbind.
Pressed by the storms of fate, hope shrinks and dies;
Frenzy darts forth in mightiest ills arrayed;
Around thy throne destructive tumults rise,
And Hell-fraught jealousies thy rights invade!

Dangerous to hear is that melodious tongue,
And fatal to the sense those murderous eyes,
Where in a sapphire sheath love's arrow lies,
Himself concealed the crystal haunts among!
Oft o'er that form, enamoured, have I hung,
On that smooth cheek to mark the deepening dyes,
While from that lip the fragrant breath would rise,
That lip, like Cupid's bow, with rubies strung!
Still let me gaze upon that polished brow,
O'er which the golden hair luxuriant plays;
So, on the modest lily's leaves of snow
The proud sun revels in resplendent rays!

Ye, who in alleys green and leafy bowers
Sport, the rude children of fantastic birth;
Where frolic nymphs, and shaggy tribes of mirth,
In clamorous revels waste the midnight hours—
Who, linked in flaunting bands of mountain-flowers,
Weave your wild mazes o'er the dewy earth,
Ere the fierce lord of lustre rushes forth
And o'er the world his beamy radiance pours!
Oft has your clanking cymbal's maddening strain,
Loud-ringing through the torch-illumined grove,
Lured my loved Phaon from the youthful train,
Through rugged dells, o'er craggy rocks to rove—

Why, through each aching vein, with lazy pace
Thus steals the languid fountain of my heart,
While from its source each wild convulsive start
Tears the scorched roses from my burning face?
In vain, oh Lesbian vales, your charms I trace—
Vain is the poet's theme, the sculptor's art!
No more the lyre its magic can impart,
Though waked to sound with more than mortal grace.
Go, tuneful maids, go bid my Phaon prove
That passion mocks the empty boast of fame—
Tell him no joys are sweet, but joys of love,
Melting the soul, and thrilling all the frame!

Come, Reason, come! Each nerve rebellious bind,
Lull the fierce tempest of my feverish soul—
Come, with the magic of thy meek control,
And check the wayward wanderings of my mind:
Estranged from thee, no solace can I find.
O'er my rapt brain, where pensive visions stole,
Now Passion reigns and stormy tumults roll:
So the smooth sea obeys the furious wind!
In vain, Philosophy unfolds her store—
O'erwhelmed is every source of pure delight;
Dim is the golden page of Wisdom's lore;
All nature fades before my sickening sight:

Is it to love, to fix the tender gaze,
To hide the timid blush, and steal away—
To shun the busy world, and waste the day
In some rude mountain's solitary maze?
Is it to chant one name in ceaseless lays,
To hear no words that other tongues can say,
To watch the pale moon's melancholy ray,
To chide in fondness, and in folly praise?
Is it to pour the involuntary sigh,
To dream of bliss, and wake new pangs to prove—
To talk, in fancy, with the speaking eye,
Then start with jealousy, and wildly rove?
Is it to loath the light, and wish to die?

Oh how can love exulting reason quell?
How fades each nobler passion from his gaze—
E'en fame, that cherishes the poet's lays,
That fame ill-fated Sappho loved so well?
Lost is the wretch, who in his fatal spell
Wastes the short summer of delicious days,
And from the tranquil path of wisdom strays
In passion's thorny wild forlorn to dwell.
Oh ye who in that sacred temple smile
Where holy innocence resides enshrined,
Who fear not sorrow, and who know not guile
(Each thought composed, and every wish resigned),

Why, when I gaze on Phaon's beauteous eyes,
Why does each thought in wild disorder stray?
Why does each fainting faculty decay,
And my chilled breast in throbbing tumults rise?
Mute on the ground my lyre neglected lies,
The Muse forgot, and lost the melting lay;
My down-cast looks, my faltering lips, betray
That stung by hopeless passion Sappho dies!
Now on a bank of cypress let me rest—
Come, tuneful maids, ye pupils of my care,
Come, with your dulcet numbers sooth my breast,
And, as the soft vibrations float on air,

Turn to yon vale beneath, whose tangled shade
Excludes the blazing torch of noonday light:
Where sportive fawns and dimpled loves invite,
The bower of pleasure opens to the glade.
Lulled by soft flutes, on leaves of violets laid,
There witching beauty greets the ravished sight,
More gentle than the arbitress of night
In all her silvery panoply arrayed!
The birds breathe bliss, light zephyrs kiss the ground
Stealing the hyacinth's divine perfume;
While from pellucid fountains glittering round,
Small tinkling rills bid rival flowerets bloom!

High on a rock, coëval with the skies,
A temple stands, reared by immortal powers
To chastity divine! Ambrosial flowers,
Twining round icicles, in columns rise,
Mingling with pendent gems of orient dyes!
Piercing the air, a golden crescent towers,
Veiled by transparent clouds; while smiling Hours
Shake from their varying wings—celestial joys!
The steps of spotless marble, scattered o'er
With deathless roses, armed with many a thorn,
Lead to the altar. On the frozen floor,
Studded with tear-drops petrified by scorn,