Page:The Works of Alexander Pope (1717).djvu/316

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SAPHO to PHAON.
No sigh to rise, no tear had pow'r to flow;Fix'd in a stupid lethargy of woe.But when its way th' impetuous passion found,I rend my tresses, and my breast I wound,I rave, then weep, I curse, and then complain,Now swell to rage, now melt in tears again.Not fiercer pangs distract the mournful dame,Whose first-born infant feeds the fun'ral flame.My scornful brother with a smile appears,Insults my woes, and triumphs in my tears,His hated image ever haunts my eyes,And why this grief? thy daughter lives, he cries.Stung with my love, and furious with despair,All torn my garments, and my bosom bare,My woes, thy crimes, I to the world proclaim;Such inconsistent things are love and shame!'Tis thou art all my care and my delight,My daily longing, and my dream by night:Oh night more pleasing than the brightest day,When fancy gives what absence takes away,

And

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