Classic Poem

1

When Sappho tun'd the raptur'd strain,
The list'ning wretch forgot his pain;
With art divine the lyre she strung,
Like thee she play'd, like thee she sung,
Like thee she play'd, like thee she sung.

2

For while she struck the quiv'ring wire,
The eager breast was all on fire;
And when she joyn'd the vocal lay,
The captive soul was charm'd away.
The captive etc.

3

But had she added still to these,
Thy softer chaster pow'r to please,
Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth,
Thy native smiles of artless truth.
Thy native etc.

4

She ne'er had pin'd beneath disdain,
She ne'er had play'd and sung in vain,
Despair her soul had ne'er possess'd
To dash on rocks the tender breast.
To dash etc.