"Erinna" by John Rollin Ridge
And to our eyes Erinna lost disclose;
Since, from the living voice of time is gone
Her genius-gifted and melodious tone,
And from his star-lit page the words are fled
She from her early lyre in wonder shed!
Arouse thee! fling around her fancied form
glorious hue--a beauty rich and warm.
'Tis done: alone, by Lesbos' wave-washed strand,
I see her in the pride of beauty stand,
Far gazing where the AEgean waters smile
Around her native home and classic isle.
Soft blow the breezes on her snowy brow,
And stir the folds around her limbs that flow;
Her golden hair's luxuriance on her neck
Falls unregarded down; it needs no check--
For who would comb the plumage of the bird,
Or smooth the dimpling waves by Zephyr stirred?
Her small white hands are linked beneath her zone,
And 'tween her sweetly rounded arms are shown
Twin spheres of Love, and Pleasure's burning throne !
A glow is on her cheeks, and fresh her lips
As evening cloud the Sun's vermilion tips;
Her clear bright eye wild wanders o'er the main,
That, rolling its blue waves along, a strain
Eternal utters, and sublime, to charm
The fair green isles that o'er its bosom swarm.
Ah! beautiful indeed! What magic gives
The grace that in her every movement lives?
What power, unseen, is breathing o'er her face,
Where every lineament divine we trace?
It is the magic Sorcerer, never stole
From Science dread--the magic of the Soul!
It is the power of genius Heaven-conferred,
Which, voiceless though it be, and aye unheard,
Imparts its own true beauty to the face,
And lends unto the form its bloom and grace.
Erinna! mid the objects Time has cast
His hand upon, thou stand'st within the past
In lonely and peculiar loveliness!
The child of song, with Nature's own impress
Upon thee--yet thy harp is hushed, and no
Sweet strains of thine through distant times shall flow:
Thy voice has perished, sweetly though it sung,
And perished those who in its accents hung;
Thou wert a bird, that breathed its soul away
In song, and died--but Echo lost the lay;
Thou wert a star, which shone a single night,
And set, to bring no more its worshipped light.
Thou art a glorious image of the mind,
Seen through the depths of ages, far behind,
Round which our fancy flings her brightest beams,
While ancient story faintly aids her dreams.
The friend of Sappho--linked together be
Those names, and never wrecked on Time's wide sea;
And when we read the passion-wildering strain.
Of Sappho's muse, that charms the listening brain,
We'll feel Erinna's voice our hearts inspire,
And dream her lovely hand is on the lyre.