Classic Poem

TO SAPPHO .

Not Philomeia's liquid throat,
Nor dear Amintor's softer note,
Oh, charmer of the Lesbian plains!
Can equal thy melodious strains.

When in thy bright, enchanting page,
I view the tender, am'rous rage;
The melting lines my bosom move,
And all my yielding soul is love.

And sure my raptur'd notes have art,
To melt the stubborn, marble heart;
To wake the soft consenting glow,
Ev'n in Amintor's breast of snow!

If magic numbers can controul
His native cruelty of soul!
Ah! bring the silver-sounding lyre,
To wake the gentle, young desire.

Harmonious songstress, I no more
Will Cytherea's pow'r adore;
Since such dissolving numbers prove
That Sappho is the queen of love.