And what I wish above all to become "Even though he flee thee, quickly will he pursue; Come to me even now, and deliver me from my vexing TRANSLATION INTO SAPPHICS, BY W. HAY. Splendidly-throned, immortal Aphrodité, Come to me now, oh! if ever or elsewhere Whither thy sparrows so swift and so lovely, Beaming with smiles on thy visage immortal, And what above all I wish'd to become of 66 Sappho, who wrongs thee? "Even though he flee thee, quickly will he follow; Come to me now, and deliver my spirit Oh, Venus, beauty of the skies, PHILLIPS. If ever thou hast kindly heard MERIVALE. Immortal Venus! Throned above Dread power, to whom I bend the knee! Yet come thyself! if e'er, benign, Thy listening ear thou didst incline To my rude lay, the starry shine Of Jove's court leaving, In chariot yoked with coursers fair, Thine own immortal birds, that bear Thee swift to earth, the middle air With bright wings cleaving. Which of these versions, gentle reader, dost thou peruse with most emotion? We ask not what you think of the first two-Our prose and our friend Hay's Sapphics-which were mere experiment done in an hour over our negus. Phillips was first in the field, and has won laurels. He does not stand upon what he thinks trifles, and smooths down the rough, and levels the prerupt, with no unskilful shovel. There is rather too much of the glitter of conventional poetic language about his version; some of the lines are feeble, and few or none very strong; and the hymn comes from his hands not intensely Sapphic. There are thoughts that breathe, but no words that burn; and its elegance, although too ornamental, found favour in the eyes of Addison. It flows, but the original rushes; we glide down the English, we are hurried away by the Greek. Yet 'tis a version that will continue to please; for it startles no heart from its propriety, and 'twould be untrue to say that it is cold. 'Tis perhaps a pity it Φαίνεται flot κῆνος ἴσος θεοῖσιν ἔμμεν ὠνὴς, ὅστις ἐναντίος του ἰσδάνει, καὶ πλασίον ἡδὺ φωνῇσαί σ ̓ ὑπακούει, καὶ γελάῖς ἱμερόεν· τό μοι ἐμὰν καρδίαν ἐν στήθεσιν ἐπτόασεν. ὡς γὰρ εἴδω σε, βροχέως με φωνᾶς οὐδὲν ἔτ ̓ ἴκει· VOL. XXXIII. NO. CCIX. Soon they were sped--and thou, most blest, What end my frenzied thoughts pursue― "What though he fly, he'll soon returnStill press thy gifts, though now he spurn; Heed not his coldness, soon he'll burn, Even though thou chide." And said'st thou thus, dread Goddess, O was ever written; for it has that kind of mediocre merit that satisfies ordinary minds, and its perusal incapacitates them for enjoying a more impassioned but less mellifluous version. We suspect that, on the whole, all things considered, it is very good certainly a very clever, and even graceful performance. Elton's, though far better, will never supersede it in our literature. It is very true to the original, leaves nothing out, and puts nothing in, and is powerful in its passionate imprecation. It might have brought back Phaon "to make love's quick pant" within the Lesbian's arms. Sir Daniel's version is a very fine one, and, with more than the elegance of Phillips, unites all the vigour of Elton. Nor is there much to choose between it and Mr Merivale's. That gentleman's has this advantage over his rival, that it is in a measure of closer kindred to that of the original, and is felt therefore to be more Greekish and Sapphic. Now for the Lines on a Girl. TO A GIRL. ἀλλὰ καμμὲν γλῶσσα ἔαγέ, λέπτον δ ̓ αὐτίκα χρῶ πῦς ὑποδιδρόμακεν, ὀππάτεσσιν δ ̓ οὐδὲν ὄψημι, βομβεῦ· 519 δ' ἀκοί fot. ̓Αλλὰ πᾶν τολμητὰν, ἐπεὶ πένητα καδδ ̓ ἱδρὼς ψύχρος χέεται, τρόμος δὲ πᾶσαν ἀγρεῖ, χλωροτέρα δὲ ποίας ἐμμί· τεθνάκην δ ̓ ὀλίγω ἐπιδίῦσα, φαίνομαι ἄπνους 3 L LINE FOR LINE WITH THE ORIGINAL. To me equal to the gods seems that As thou laughest lovingly: 'twas this that my For when I see thee, in a short time to me of voice But thoroughly is my tongue broken down, and a subtle Mine ears: Blest as th' immortal gods is he, And a cold perspiration pours-down-over-me, and trembling I am and wanting little of (being not far from) dying, But all must be dared-since a poor 'Twas this deprived my soul of rest, That man is like a god to me, Thy laughter's gentle blandishing, 'Tis this astounds my trembling heart; PHILLIPS. CHRISTOPHER NORTH. ELTON. A rival for the Gods is he, Thy sweet voice sounding near. Thou smilest; at that my bosom quails, My bosom glowed; the subtle flame SANDFORD. Blest as th' immortal Gods is he, May still devour! In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd, My flushing skin the fire betrays My ringing ears re-echoing. Cold from my forehead glides the dew, MERIVALE. Then cleaves my tongue, and subtle flame And cold, dank sweat upon me breaks, Thou smilest too? sweet smile, whose charm Each vital power. Speechless I gaze: the flame within My brain wheels round. Sappho has here in imagination unsexed herself, and, by power of genius inflamed by wild experiences, is a man. She durst not have depicted a girl thus overcome to the very death by looking and listening to a youth. She shews, in another composition of two lines, how near a "puir bit lassie" might languish to wards deliquium under such impulse, even in the absence of her beloved boy. has effected the sublime.'" Mr Elton adds, that he has no doubt "that the passion, of which Sappho describes the paroxysm, is a passion indulged by stealth, and concealed through a sense of guilt or apprehension. The first line of the succeeding stanza, which is lost, seems to point at a disclosure-Yet must I venture all.' Plutarch tells a traditionary story of a physician who discovered the love of Antiochus for his mother-in-law, Stratonice, by comparing the effects which her presence produced on his patient, with the symptoms enumera Γλυκεία ματος, οὗτοι δύναμαι κρεκειν τον ISTOY" Ποίω δαμεισα παιδος, βραδιναν δι ̓ Αφροδιταν. ted by Sappho.” “ Is it not wonder ful," exclaims Longinus-we avail ourselves of Sir Daniel's translation"how she calls at once on soul, body, ears, tongue, eyes, colour-all at once she calls, as if estranged and vanishing away! and how with contradictory efforts and emotions, she freezes, she glows, she raves, she recovers her reason, she shakes with It is not a single passion, but a whole terror, she is on the brink of death. convention of passions." Longinus should have said "he"-not "she;" for 'tis not fair to Sappho to suppose her the gazer, any more than to charge Milton with being Satan. In further illustration, we would fain quote the Ettrick Shepherd's celebrated song-beginning, "Mother! sweet mother! 'tis in vain- The lines here elegantly paraphrased by Elton literally run thus, And cold drops fall; and tremblings frail Sweet mother! no longer am I able to weave the web, Overcome by longing for that boy, through influence of Venus (the irresistible?) But the ode is surcharged with more impetuous passion-the love-sickness becomes a swoon-and the swoon seems death. Longinus says truly that it is sublime. Is the man jealous? No. No more jealous than a man must be, who sees another man enjoying, near and close, the breath, eyes, words, and laughter (subdued and silvery) of the woman whom to distraction he desires and loves. They are sitting face to facewe may believe knee to knee; and in the sense of the word used above, the maddened wretch that watches them is jealous; but Mr Elton well says, "this fainting of the spirits is not likely to be occasioned by jealousy, which rather engenders a sullen or malignant temper of the mind, and an angry contortion of the countenance. Longinus does not quote the ode as a just description of jealous uneasiness, but of amorous fervour;' and his expressions are, all things of this kind happen to those who are in love; but the seizure of the chief particulars, and the embodying of them in one whole, "O love! love! love! Love's like a dizziness, It will not let a puir body Gang about his bizziness." Catullus-and who but he-has made the Greek Latin with all its fire. Boileau has made it French and flummery; Phillips, English and mulled port,-drink, when well composed, at once sweet and potent, but he has given it a dash of water, and it smacks too strongly of the cloves and cinnamon. Elton's version is felicitous; the best of them all, and likest the Lesbian. Sandford's is little inferior; but "lists to hear" is not good; nor is "soon as I gaze with instant thrill;" but "grassy-pale" is the thing to a nicety; and the last line is a clencher -a consummation. Merivale is nearly as good as is possible; the |