Henry T. Wharton, in whose altogether admirable little
volume we find all that is known and the most apposite of all that has been
said up to the present day about
"Love's priestess, mad with pain and joy of song,
Song's priestess, mad with joy and pain of love."
Perhaps the most perilous and the most alluring venture in the whole field
of poetry is that which Mr. Carman has undertaken in attempting to give us
in English verse those lost poems of Sappho of which fragments have
survived. The task is obviously not one of translation or of paraphrasing,
but of imaginative and, at the same time, interpretive construction. It is
as if a sculptor of to-day were to set himself, with reverence, and trained
craftsmanship, and studious familiarity with the spirit, technique, and
atmosphere of his subject, to restore some statues of Polyclitus or
Praxiteles of which he had but a broken arm, a foot, a knee, a finger upon
which to build. Mr. Carman's method, apparently, has been to imagine each
lost lyric as discovered, and then to translate it; for the indefinable
flavour of the translation is maintained throughout, though accompanied by
the fluidity and freedom of purely original work.
C.G.D. ROBERTS.
Now to please my little friend
I must make these notes of spring,
With the soft south-west wind in them
And the marsh notes of the frogs.
I must take a gold-bound pipe,
And outmatch the bubbling call
From the beechwoods in the sunlight,
From the meadows in the rain.
CONTENTS
Now to please my little friend
I Cyprus, Paphos, or Panormus
II What shall we do, Cytherea?
III Power and beauty and knowledge
IV O Pan of the evergreen forest
V O Aphrodite
VI Peer of the gods he seems
VII The Cyprian came to thy cradle
VIII Aphrodite of the foam
IX Nay, but always and forever
X Let there be garlands, Dica
XI When the Cretan maidens
XII In a dream I spoke with the Cyprus-born
XIII Sleep thou in the bosom
XIV Hesperus, bringing together
XV In the grey olive-grove a small brown bird
XVI In the apple-boughs the coolness
XVII Pale rose-leaves have fallen
XVIII The
courtyard
of her house is wide
XIX There is a medlar-tree
XX I behold Arcturus going westward
XXI Softly the first step of twilight
XXII Once you lay upon my bosom
XXIII I loved thee, Atthis, in the long ago
XXIV I shall be ever maiden
XXV It was summer when I found you
XXVI I recall thy white gown, cinctured
XXVII Lover, art thou of a surety
XXVIII With your head thrown backward
XXIX Ah, what am I but a torrent
XXX Love shakes my soul, like a mountain wind
XXXI Love, let the wind cry
XXXII Heart of mine, if all the altars
XXXIII Never yet, love, in earth's lifetime
XXXIV "Who was Atthis?
" men shall ask
XXXV When the great pink mallow
XXXVI When I pass thy door at night
XXXVII Well I found you in the twilit garden
XXXVIII Will not men remember us
XXXIX I grow weary of the foreign cities
XL Ah, what detains thee, Phaon
XLI Phaon, O my lover
XLII O heart of insatiable longing
XLIII Surely somehow, in some measure
XLIV O but my delicate lover
XLV Softer than the hill-fog to the forest
XLVI I seek and desire
XLVII Like torn sea-kelp in the drift
XLVIII Fine woven purple linen
XLIX When I am home from travel
L When I behold the pharos shine
LI Is the day long
LII Lo, on the distance a dark blue ravine
LIII Art thou the topmost apple
LIV How soon will all my lovely days be over
LV Soul of sorrow, why this weeping?
LVI It never can be mine
LVII Others shall behold the sun
LVIII Let thy strong spirit never fear
LIX Will none say of Sappho
LX When I have departed
LXI There is no more to say, now thou art still
LXII Play up, play up thy silver flute
LXIII A beautiful child is mine
LXIV Ah, but now henceforth
LXV Softly the wind moves through the radiant morning
LXVI What the west wind whispers
LXVII Indoors the fire is kindled
LXVIII You ask how love can keep the mortal soul
LXIX Like a tall forest were their spears
LXX My lover smiled, "O friend, ask not
LXXI Ye who have the stable world
LXXII I heard the gods reply
LXXIII The sun on the tide, the peach on the bough
LXXIV If death be good
LXXV Tell me what this life means
LXXVI Ye have heard how Marsyas
LXXVII Hour by hour I sit
LXXVIII Once in the shining street
LXXIX How strange is love, O my lover
LXXX How to say I love you
LXXXI Hark, love, to the tambourines
LXXXII Over the roofs the honey-coloured moon
LXXXIII In the quiet garden world
LXXXIV Soft was the wind in the beech-trees
LXXXV Have ye heard the news of Sappho's garden
LXXXVI Love is so strong a thing
LXXXVII Hadst thou with all thy loveliness been true
LXXXVIII As on a morn a traveller might emerge
LXXXIX Where shall I look for thee
XC O sad, sad face and saddest eyes that ever
XCI Why have the gods in derision
XCII Like a red lily in the meadow grasses
XCIII When in the spring the swallows all return
XCIV Cold is the wind where Daphne sleeps
XCV Hark, where Poseidon's
XCVI Hark, my lover, it is spring!
XCVII When the early soft spring-wind comes blowing
XCVIII I am more tremulous than shaken reeds
XCIX Over the wheat field
C Once more the rain on the mountain
Epilogue
SAPPHO
I
Cyprus, Paphos, or Panormus
May detain thee with their splendour
Of oblations on thine altars,
O imperial Aphrodite.
Yet do thou regard, with pity 5
For a nameless child of passion,
This small unfrequented valley
By the sea, O sea-born mother.
II
What shall we do, Cytherea?
Lovely Adonis is dying.
Ah, but we mourn him!
Will he return when the Autumn
Purples the earth, and the sunlight 5
Sleeps in the vineyard?
Will he return when the Winter
Huddles the sheep, and Orion
Goes to his hunting?
Ah, but thy beauty, Adonis, 10
With the soft spring and the south wind,
Love and desire!
III
Power and beauty and knowledge,--
Pan, Aphrodite, or Hermes,--
Whom shall we life-loving mortals
Serve and be happy?
Lo now, your garlanded altars, 5
Are they not goodly with flowers?
Have ye not honour and pleasure
In lovely Lesbos?
Will ye not, therefore, a little
Hearten, impel, and inspire 10
One who adores, with a favour
Threefold in wonder?
IV
O Pan of the evergreen forest,
Protector of herds in the meadows,
Helper of men at their toiling,--
Tillage and harvest and herding,--
How many times to frail mortals 5
Hast thou not hearkened!
