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,
Let pity waft my spirit to the blest,
To mock the barbarous triumphs of despair!