Phaon

Section Fifteen of Ovid's Heroides, translated by an unknown translator, first published in 1813.

Sappho to Phaon.

At the sight of this letter, written by an anxious hand, will you not instantly know the characters to be mine? Or must even the name of the unhappy writer be added, to prove the person by whom the few lines are sent? You may perhaps wonder why I address you in alternate measures, when lyric numbers so much better suit my genius.

But unsuccessful love complains in melancholy notes; and elegy is the most proper for the expression of my woe.

No harp can serve to paint my flowing tears.

I burn like a ripened field of corn, when driving east winds spread the catching flames.

Phaon honors the distant fields of burning Etna, while flames fierce as those of Etna prey upon my heart.

I no more take pleasure in forming my numbers to the tuneful strings: music and poetry are the employment of a mind at ease.

Their imagination exhausted itself in researches into the nature of such things as amber, in which they recognized the curious attribute of attraction and repulsion of objects of slight weight.

The poets attributed it to the tears of Phaon's sisters lamenting over the dreams of Eridan.

Certain naturalists regarded it as a kind of gum issuing from trees during the dry days.

No one gave any thought to electricity, by whose subtle fluid the earth and everything upon it is penetrated and enveloped.

Dear maids, with all your vanished empery, ye now are nought to me.

Phaon, thy galley rides within the harbor's mouth, and waits the tides and favoring winds far to the west to fly, and leave me here to die.

The brawny rowers lean to bend long-stroking oars and changing scene, and fairer loves than mine shall soon efface this last divine embrace.

Phaon, the lifting breeze, see at thy feet I kneel and clasp thy knees.

Go not, go not.

O hear my sobbing prayer, and yield to my despair.

Bestow con-dine release, the taste of rest that comes with endless sleep.

Lure off the haunting dreams, the dire Eumenides that torture my repose.

First published in 1813.

Sappho to Phaon.

at the sight of this letter written by an anxious hand will you not instantly know the characters to be mine or must even the name of the unhappy writer be added to prove the person by whom the few lines are sent you may perhaps wonder why i address you in alternate measures when lyric numbers so much better suit my genius but unsuccessful love complains in melancholy notes and elegy is the most proper for the expression of my woe no harp can serve to paint my flowing tears i burn like a ripened field of corn when driving east winds spread the catching flames phaon honours the distant fields of burning while flames fierce as those of etna prey upon my heart i no more take pleasure in forming my numbers to the tuneful strings music and poetry are the employment of a mind at ease the dames of pyrrha methimna and the other cities of lesbos please no more an actory and fair cydno have lost their charms and athys of late so grateful to my sight with hundreds of others once the objects of my guilty love faithless man you alone engross that heart formerly shared by many You are happy in a fine face, and years fit for pleasure and dalliance.

Oh, enchanting looks, so fatal to me and my repose! Take the harp and bow, and you will pass withal for Apollo.

to me the muses dictate the sweetest lays and the name of sappho resounds through all nations even great alcius the partner of my country and my harp has not more renown though he sings in loftier notes if unfriendly nature has denied me an engaging form yet the charms of my wit abundantly compensate that deficiency I am short of stature, yet I have a name that fills the whole earth, and by my own merit have gained this extensive renown.

What if I am not fair? Was not even Perseus pleased with Andromedae, an Ethiopian dame? Doves of various colours often unite, and the white turtle matches with the shining green.

If no charms can gain your heart but such as equal your own, no charms will be ever able to gain Phaon.

yet when you read my lays i then seem'd formed to please you were never enough delighted with my voice and swore that it became me alone to speak i remember when wont to sing for ah how vast a memory have lovers how you stopped my tongue with kisses even these you praised i pleased in all but more particularly when united with you in the close bonds of love then you were fired by my amorous sport each motion each glance each word inflamed you till dissolving in tumultuous raptures gentle faintness surprised our wearied limbs but now the sicilian maids take up all your thoughts why was i born at lesbos why am i not a native of sicily but ah sicilian nymphs beware and banish from your isle this deceitful wanderer be not deceived with the fictions of an insinuating tongue those faithless vows have all been made to sappho you too erysina who range the sicilian hills think that i am thine and pity the sorrows of your poetess shall cruel fortune still pursue the same sad tenor and obstinately persist in heaping woes upon me scarcely had i completed my sixth year when the ashes of a deceased parent drank my tears my brother next despising wealth and honour burned with an ignoble flame and rashly plunged himself into shameful distresses reduced to want he traversed the blue ocean in a nimble barque and basely hunted after those riches which he had foolishly lost my many good counsels he repaid with hatred such was the reward of my piety and plain dealing and as if fortune had determined to oppress me without ceasing an infant daughter has been lately added to my cares yet adverse fate still pursues me and sends you the last and greatest of my woes alas how much is this tempestuous voyage of life agitated by unfriendly gales my locks no more hang curled in ringlets round my neck nor do the glowing gems adorn my joints i am clad in homely weeds no braids of gold bind the flowing tresses nor do arabian engines breathe their sweet perfumes for whom shall i adorn myself unhappy wretch whom shall i thus study to please the only object of my tenderness is gone the light darts of cupid easily wound my gentle heart and still there is some cause why sappho still should love whether the sisters have so fixed my doom from the birth and formed my life to the softer ties of venus or my manners are fashioned by my studies and those arts in which i excel the muse certainly forms my mind to answer the moulting notes of my tongue what wonder if my tender age yields to the gentle violins and those years that recommend to the addresses of men how was i afraid that aurora might seize you for her cephalus and she would have done it had she not been detained by her first love if cynthia whose eye extends over all should chance to fix it upon you phaon would be commanded to prolong his sleep venus would have borne you off in a chariot of ivory to the skies but she foresaw that you would no less charm her beloved mars O scarcely a youth, and yet not a tender boy, useful age for lovers! O pride and glory of thy age, come to these arms, return, darling of my soul, to my soft embraces! I ask not your love, but that you will kindly receive mine.

1.

Phaon, most lovely, closest to my heart, Can your dear eyes forget, or must I stand Confessed in name, beloved that thou art, Lost to my touch and in another land? Zapho now calls thee, liar and lyric music forgotten, And the tears born of her wrongs blinding her eyes, Upturned but to refuse Phoebus the fountain of all joyous songs.

i burn as when in swiftness past the byres flame takes the corn borne by the winds that blow for what are etna's flames to my desires thou who by etna wanderest o thou the lyric muse has turned as i from her peace peace alone can join us once again the blue sea in its solitude lies fair but desolate i turn from it in pain no more the girls of lesbos move my heart My blameless love for them is now no more, But my love for thee all loves depart, Cold wanderer thou upon a distant shore.

O thou art lovely! Wart thou garbed like him, Apollo by thy side a shade would be.

i rise and weeping silently i go my fear is great my love is greater still better oblivion than the love i know kinder than phaon's is the blue wave's will ye favouring breezes guard me on this day love let your pinions waft me o'er the sea where lovely phoebus on thy shrine i'll lay my lyre with this inscription unto thee Zapho to Phoebus consecrates her lyre, Unto the god the gift, the fire to fire.

III.

Alas, and woe is me, but must I go? O Phaon, Phoebus' self to me is less than Phaon.

Will you cast me down below, all broken for the cruel rocks to press, this breast that loved thee ruined? Ah, the song, born of the muses, leaves me, and the lyre is voiceless.

Aphrodite's love, in this case, extended across centuries, shaping the destiny of an entire civilization through a single night on a mountainside in Asia Minor.

There was Phaon, the ferryman made young and beautiful by her grace, whose story tangled in later tradition with the legend of the poet Sappho.

There were others, mortal and divine, whose names the ancient sources passed through quickly, like a list of places visited on a long and winding road.

But the pattern across all of them is consistent and worth naming.

Hearken to my earnest prayer, O Aphrodite, may the night be doubled now for our delight.

Phaon.

Philomel.

Philomel in my garden, messenger sweet of springtide, from the bough of the olive tree utter tidings ecstatic.

Golden pulse grew on the shore, ferns along the hill, and the red cliff roses bore bees to drink their fill.

Bees that from the meadows bring wine of melilot, honey sups on golden wings to the garden grot.

But to me neglected flower, Phaon will not see, passion brings no crowning hour, honeyed nor the bee.

The swallow.