Part 4

Besides these, Antiphanes and Plato (the Comic writer, not the philosopher) each wrote a play called _Phaon_. Of that by Antiphanes but three words remain. Plato's drama is several times quoted by Athenaeus, but only when he is discussing details of cookery--one passage obviously for the sake of its coarseness. Menander wrote a play called _Leucadia_, and Antiphanes one called _Leucadius_. Antiphanes' play furnishes Athenaeus with nothing but a catalogue of seasonings. Some lines out of Menander's _Leucadia_ are quoted above (p. 17) from Strabo, and it is referred to by several authors for the sake of some word or phrase; Servius, commenting on Vergil's _Aeneid_, iii. 274, gives a précis of Turpilius' Latin paraphrase of it, which is mentioned above, p. 16.

Such is our knowledge of the Comic accounts of Sappho's history. When we consider the general character of the Middle Comedy, written as it was to please the Athenians after their golden time had passed, it is not unreasonable to take accounts which seem to have originated in such treatment with somewhat more than diffidence.

But it is not only the Greek dramatists who have written plays on the story of Sappho. Two have appeared in English during the last few years, one of which, by the late Mrs. Estelle Lewis ('Stella'), has been translated into modern Greek by Cambourogio for representation on the Athenian stage. The most celebrated, however, and one of considerable beauty, is by John Lilly, 'the Euphuist'; it is called _Sapho and Phao_, and was acted before Queen Elizabeth in 1584. The whole is allegorical, Sapho being probably meant for Elizabeth, queen of an island, and Phao is supposed to be Leicester. Lilly makes his Sapho a princess of Syracuse, and takes other liberties--though not such as the Greeks did--with her history; strangely enough, however, he makes no reference to the Leucadian leap. 'When Phao cometh,' he makes Sapho soliloquise, 'what then? Wilt thou open thy love? Yea? No, Sapho, but staring in his face till thine eyes dazzle and thy spirits faint, die before his face; then this shall be written on thy tomb, that though thy love were greater than wisdom could endure, yet thine honour was such as love could not violate.' Venus is introduced as marring their mutual love, and Phao says: 'This shall be my resolution, wherever I wander, to be as I were kneeling before Sapho; my loyalty unspotted, though unrewarded.... My life shall be spent in sighing and wishing, the one for my bad fortune, the other for Sapho's good.'

In France, the first opera written by the late M. Charles Gounod was entitled _Sapho_. The libretto was by M. Emile Augier. It was first given at the Académie, April 16, 1851; and in Italian, as _Saffo_, at Covent Garden, Aug. 9, in the same year. It was reproduced in 1858, and again in the new Opera House, April 3, 1884. Each time both author and composer recast their work, which contains many brilliant scenes and melodies. The celebrated Madame de Staël wrote a drama called _Sapho_, but it has been long forgotten. Alphonse Daudet's novel, _Sapho_, _moeurs Parisiennes,_ of which a version dramatised by M. Belot was played for the first time at the Gymnase in Paris, December 18, 1885, bears no reference to the poetess beyond the sobriquet of the heroine. The most artistically finished tragedy of the German dramatist Grillparzer is his _Sappho_. It was produced at Vienna in 1819, and is still played at many of the principal German theatres. An inferior Italian translation of it received a high encomium from Lord Byron. It is best known to English readers by Miss Ellen Frothingham's faithful translation.

About forty years ago, however, Messrs. Thomas Constable & Co., of Edinburgh, had issued an earlier translation of the play by L. C. C. [_i.e._ Lucy Caroline Cumming]; and there are some others.

The Queen of Roumania, under her _nom de guerre_ of 'Carmen Sylva,' is the most distinguished among living poets who have idealised the life of Sappho. But her poem under that title, published in her _Stürme_, owes more to its rich poetic charm than to the actual facts of the Greek story; in it the Lesbian seems to live in the Germany of to-day.

Although so little of Sappho remains, her complete works must have been considerable. She seems to have been the chief acknowledged writer of 'Wedding-Songs,' if we may believe Himerius (cf. fr. 93); and there is little doubt that Catullus' _Epithalamia_ were copied, if not actually translated, from hers. Menander the Rhetorician praises her 'Invocatory Hymns,' in which he says she called upon Artemis and Aphrodite from a thousand hills; perhaps fr. 6 is taken out of one of these. Her hymn to Artemis is said to have been imitated by Damophyla (cf. p. 24). She was on all sides regarded as the greatest erotic poet of antiquity; as Swinburne makes her sing of herself--

My blood was hot wan wine of love, And my song's sound the sound thereof, The sound of the delight of it.

Epigrams and Elegies, Iambics and Monodies, she is also reported to have written. Nine books of her lyric Odes are said to have existed, but it is uncertain how they were composed. The imitations of her style and metre made by Horace are too well known to require more than a passing reference. Some of his odes have been regarded as direct translations from Sappho; notably his _Carm._ iii. 12, _Miserarum est neque amori dare ludum neque dulci_, which Volger compares to her fr. 90. Horace looked forward to hearing her in Hades singing plaintively to the girls of her own country (_Carm._ ii. 13, 14[6]), and in his time

Still breathed the love, still lived the fire To which the Lesbian tuned her lyre. (_Carm._ iv. 9. 10.)

Athenaeus says that Chamaeleon, one of the disciples of Aristotle, wrote a book about Sappho; and Strabo says Callias of Lesbos interpreted her songs. Alexander the Sophist used to lecture on her; and Dracon of Stratonica, in the reign of Hadrian, wrote a commentary on her metres.

She wrote in the Aeolic dialect, the form of which Bergk has restored in almost every instance. The absence of rough breathings, the throwing back of the accent, and the use of the digamma ([Greek: W]) and of many forms and words unknown to ordinary Attic Greek, all testify to this. Three idyls ascribed to Theocr[)i]tus (cf. fr. 65) are imitations of the dialect, metre, and manner of the old Aeolic poets; and the 28th, says Professor Mahaffy, 'is an elegant little address to an ivory spindle which the poet was sending as a present to the wife of his physician friend, Nikias of Cos, and was probably composed on the model of a poem of Sappho.'

Her poems or [Greek: melê] were undoubtedly written for recitation with the aid of music; 'they were, in fact,' to quote Professor Mahaffy again, 'the earliest specimens of what is called in modern days the _Song_ or _Ballad_, in which the repetition of short rhythms produces a certain pleasant monotony, easy to remember and easy to understand.'

What Melic poetry like Sappho's actually was is best comprehended in the light of Plato's definition of _melos_, that it is 'compounded out of three things, speech, music, and rhythm.'

Aristox[)e]nus, as quoted by Plutarch, ascribes to her the invention of the Mixo-Lydian mode. Mr. William Chappell thinks the plain meaning of Aristoxenus' assertion is merely that she sang softly and plaintively, and at a higher pitch than any of her predecessors. All Greek modes can be exhibited by means of our diatonic scale--by the white keys, for example, omitting the black ones, of our modern pianofortes; the various modes having been merely divisions of the diatonic scale into certain regions each consisting of one octave. The ecclesiastical Mixo-Lydian mode, supposed to be similar to the Greek mode of the same name, is the scale of our G major without the F# or leading note. It was called in the early Christian Church 'the angelic mode,' and is now known as the Seventh of the ecclesiastical or Gregorian modes. The more celebrated instances of the use of this mode in modern church music are Palestrina's four-part motet _Dies sanctificatus_, the Antiphon _Asperges me_ as given in the Roman Gradual, and the Sarum melody of _Sanctorum meritis_ printed in the Rev. T. Helmore's _Hymnal Noted_. The subjoined example of it is given in Sir George Grove's _Dictionary of Music and Musicians_:--

together with a technical description of its construction.

Sappho is said by Athenaeus, quoting Menaechmus and Aristoxenus, to have been the first of the Greek poets to use the P[=e]ktis ([Greek: pêktis]), a foreign instrument of uncertain form, a kind of harp (cf. fr. 122), which was played by the fingers without a plectrum. Athenaeus says the Pektis was identical with the Mag[)a]dis, but in this he was plainly wrong, for Mr. William Chappell has shown that any instrument which was played in octaves was called a Magadis, and when it was in the form of a lyre it had a bridge to divide the strings into two parts, in the ratio of 2 to 1, so that the short part of each string gave a sound just one octave higher than the other. Sappho also mentions (in fr. 154) the Bar[=o]mos or Barmos, and the Sarb[)i]tos or Barb[)i]tos, kinds of many-stringed Lesbian lyres which cannot now be identified.

As to the metres in which Sappho wrote, it is unnecessary to describe them elaborately here. They are discussed in all treatises on Greek or Latin metres, and Neue has treated of them at great length in his edition of Sappho. Suffice it to say that Bergk has as far as possible arranged the fragments according to their metres, of which I have given indications--often purposely general--in the headings to the various divisions. The metre commonly called after her name was probably not invented by her; it was only called Sapphic because of her frequent use of it. Its strophe is made up thus:

- v - = - v v - v - = - v - = - v v - v - = - v - = - v v - v - = - v v - =

Professor Robinson Ellis, in the preface to his translation of Catullus, gives some examples of Elizabethan renderings of the Sapphic stanza into English; but nothing repeats its rhythm to my ear so well as Swinburne's _Sapphics_:

All the night sleep came not upon my eyelids, Shed not dew, nor shook nor unclosed a feather, Yet with lips shut close and with eyes of iron Stood and beheld me.

With such lines as these ringing in the reader's ears, he can almost hear Sappho herself singing

Songs that move the heart of the shaken heaven, Songs that break the heart of the earth with pity, Hearing, to hear them.

In the face of so much testimony to Sappho's genius, and in the presence of every glowing word of hers that has been spared to us, those 'grains of golden sand which the torrent of Time has carried down to us,' as Professor F. T. Palgrave says, there is no need for me to panegyrise the poetess whom the whole world has been long since contented to hold without a parallel. What Sappho wrote, to earn such unchallenged fame, we can only vainly long to know; what still remains for us to judge her by, I am willing to leave my readers to estimate.

I

IN SAPPHIC METRE

1

[Greek: Poikilothron', athanat' Aphrodita,] [Greek: pai Dios, doloploke, lissomai se] [Greek: mê m' asaisi mêt' oniaisi damna,] [Greek: potnia, thymon;] [Greek: alla tuid' elth', aipota katerôta] [Greek: tas emas audôs aioisa pêlui] [Greek: eklyes, patros de domon lipoisa] [Greek: chrysion êlthes] [Greek: arm' ypozeuxaisa; kaloi de s' agon] [Greek: ôkees strouthoi peri gas melainas] [Greek: pykna dineuntes pter' ap' ôranô aithe-] [Greek: ras dia messô.] [Greek: aipsa d' exikonto; ty d', ô makaira,] [Greek: meidiasais' athanatô prosôpô,] [Greek: êre', otti dêute pepontha kôtti] [Greek: dêute kalêmi,] [Greek: kôtti moi malista thelô genesthai] [Greek: mainola thymô; tina dêute Peithô] [Greek: mais agên es san philotata, tis s', ô] [Greek: Psapph', adikêei?] [Greek: kai gar ai pheugei, tacheôs diôxei,] [Greek: ai de dôra mê deket' alla dôsei,] [Greek: ai de mê philei, tacheôs philêsei] [Greek: kôuk etheloisa.] [Greek: elthe moi kai nyn, chalepan de lyson] [Greek: ek merimnan, ossa de moi telessai] [Greek: thymos imerrei, teleson; sy d' auta] [Greek: symmachos esso.]

_Immortal Aphrodite of the broidered throne, daughter of Zeus, weaver of wiles, I pray thee break not my spirit with anguish and distress, O Queen. But come hither, if ever before thou didst hear my voice afar, and listen, and leaving thy father's golden house camest with chariot yoked, and fair fleet sparrows drew thee, flapping fast their wings around the dark earth, from heaven through mid sky. Quickly arrived they; and thou, blessed one, smiling with immortal countenance, didst ask What now is befallen me, and Why now I call, and What I in my mad heart most desire to see. 'What Beauty now wouldst thou draw to love thee? Who wrongs thee, Sappho? For even if she flies she shall soon follow, and if she rejects gifts shall yet give, and if she loves not shall soon love, however loth.' Come, I pray thee, now too, and release me from cruel cares; and all that my heart desires to accomplish, accomplish thou, and be thyself my ally._

A HYMN TO VENUS.

O Venus, beauty of the skies, To whom a thousand temples rise, Gaily false in gentle smiles, Full of love-perplexing wiles; O goddess, from my heart remove The wasting cares and pains of love.

If ever thou hast kindly heard A song in soft distress preferred, Propitious to my tuneful vow, O gentle goddess, hear me now. Descend, thou bright immortal guest, In all thy radiant charms confessed.

Thou once didst leave almighty Jove And all the golden roofs above; The car thy wanton sparrows drew, Hovering in air they lightly flew; As to my bower they winged their way I saw their quivering pinions play.

The birds dismissed (while you remain) Bore back their empty car again: Then you, with looks divinely mild, In every heavenly feature smiled, And asked what new complaints I made, And why I called you to my aid?

What frenzy in my bosom raged, And by what cure to be assuaged? What gentle youth I would allure, Whom in my artful toils secure? Who does thy tender heart subdue, Tell me, my Sappho, tell me who?

Though now he shuns thy longing arms, He soon shall court thy slighted charms; Though now thy offerings he despise, He soon to thee shall sacrifice; Though now he freeze, he soon shall burn, And be thy victim in his turn.

Celestial visitant, once more Thy needful presence I implore. In pity come, and ease my grief, Bring my distempered soul relief, Favour thy suppliant's hidden fires, And give me all my heart desires. AMBROSE PHILIPS, 1711.

TO THE GODDESS OF LOVE.

O Venus, daughter of the mighty Jove, Most knowing in the mystery of love, Help me, oh help me, quickly send relief, And suffer not my heart to break with grief.

If ever thou didst hear me when I prayed, Come now, my goddess, to thy Sappho's aid. Orisons used, such favour hast thou shewn, From heaven's golden mansions called thee down.

See, see, she comes in her cerulean car, Passing the middle regions of the air. Mark how her nimble sparrows stretch the wing, And with uncommon speed their Mistress bring.

Arrived, and sparrows loosed, hastens to me; Then smiling asks, What is it troubles thee? Why am I called? Tell me what Sappho wants. Oh, know you not the cause of all my plaints?

I love, I burn, and only love require; And nothing less can quench the raging fire. What youth, what raving lover shall I gain? Where is the captive that should wear my chain?

Alas, poor Sappho, who is this ingrate Provokes thee so, for love returning hate? Does he now fly thee? He shall soon return; Pursue thee, and with equal ardour burn.

Would he no presents at thy hands receive? He will repent it, and more largely give. The force of love no longer can withstand; He must be fond, wholly at thy command.

When wilt thou work this change? Now, Venus free, Now ease my mind of so much misery; In this amour my powerful aider be; Make Phaon love, but let him love like me. HERBERT, 1713.

HYMN TO VENUS.

Immortal Venus, throned above In radiant beauty, child of Jove, O skilled in every art of love And artful snare; Dread power, to whom I bend the knee, Release my soul and set it free From bonds of piercing agony And gloomy care. Yet come thyself, if e'er, benign, Thy listening ears 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. Soon they were sped--and thou, most blest, In thine own smiles ambrosial dressed, Didst ask what griefs my mind oppressed-- What meant my song-- What end my frenzied thoughts pursue-- For what loved youth I spread anew My amorous nets--'Who, Sappho, who 'Hath done thee wrong? 'What though he fly, he'll soon return-- 'Still press thy gifts, though now he spurn; 'Heed not his coldness--soon he'll burn, 'E'en though thou chide.' --And saidst thou thus, dread goddess? Oh, Come then once more to ease my woe: Grant all, and thy great self bestow, My shield and guide! JOHN HERMAN MERIVALE, 1833.

HYMN TO APHRODITE.

Golden-throned beyond the sky, Jove-born immortality: Hear and heal a suppliant's pain: Let not love be love in vain!

Come, as once to Love's imploring Accents of a maid's adoring, Wafted 'neath the golden dome Bore thee from thy father's home;

When far off thy coming glowed, Whirling down th' aethereal road, On thy dove-drawn progress glancing, 'Mid the light of wings advancing;

And at once the radiant hue Of immortal smiles I knew; Heard the voice of reassurance Ask the tale of love's endurance:--

'Why such prayer? And who for thee, Sappho, should be touch'd by me; Passion-charmed in frenzy strong-- Who hath wrought my Sappho wrong?

'--Soon for flight pursuit wilt find, Proffer'd gifts for gifts declined; Soon, thro' long reluctance earn'd, Love refused be Love return'd.'

--To thy suppliant so returning, Consummate a maiden's yearning: Love, from deep despair set free, Championing to victory! F. T. PALGRAVE, 1854.

Splendour-throned Queen, immortal Aphrodite, Daughter of Jove, Enchantress, I implore thee Vex not my soul with agonies and anguish; Slay me not, Goddess! Come in thy pity--come, if I have prayed thee; Come at the cry of my sorrow; in the old times Oft thou hast heard, and left thy father's heaven, Left the gold houses, Yoking thy chariot. Swiftly did the doves fly, Swiftly they brought thee, waving plumes of wonder-- Waving their dark plumes all across the aether, All down the azure. Very soon they lighted. Then didst thou, Divine one, Laugh a bright laugh from lips and eyes immortal, Ask me, 'What ailed me--wherefore out of heaven 'Thus I had called thee? 'What it was made me madden in my heart so?' Question me, smiling--say to me, 'My Sappho, 'Who is it wrongs thee? Tell me who refuses 'Thee, vainly sighing.' 'Be it who it may be, he that flies shall follow; 'He that rejects gifts, he shall bring thee many; 'He that hates now shall love thee dearly, madly-- 'Aye, though thou wouldst not.' So once again come, Mistress; and, releasing Me from my sadness, give me what I sue for, Grant me my prayer, and be as heretofore now Friend and protectress. EDWIN ARNOLD, 1869.

Beautiful-throned, immortal Aphrodite, Daughter of Zeus, beguiler, I implore thee, Weigh me not down with weariness and anguish O thou most holy!

Come to me now, if ever thou in kindness Hearkenedst my words,--and often hast thou hearkened-- Heeding, and coming from the mansions golden Of thy great Father,

Yoking thy chariot, borne by the most lovely Consecrated birds, with dusky-tinted pinions, Waving swift wings from utmost heights of heaven Through the mid-ether;

Swiftly they vanished, leaving thee, O goddess, Smiling, with face immortal in its beauty, Asking why I grieved, and why in utter longing I had dared call thee;

Asking what I sought, thus hopeless in desiring, Wildered in brain, and spreading nets of passion-- Alas, for whom? and saidst thou, 'Who has harmed thee? 'O my poor Sappho!

'Though now he flies, ere long he shall pursue thee; 'Fearing thy gifts, he too in turn shall bring them; 'Loveless to-day, to-morrow he shall woo thee, 'Though thou shouldst spurn him.'

Thus seek me now, O holy Aphrodite! Save me from anguish; give me all I ask for, Gifts at thy hand; and thine shall be the glory, Sacred protector! T. W. HIGGINSON, 1871.

O fickle-souled, deathless one, Aphrodite, Daughter of Zeus, weaver of wiles, I pray thee, Lady august, never with pangs and bitter Anguish affray me!

But hither come often, as erst with favour My invocations pitifully heeding, Leaving thy sire's golden abode, thou camest Down to me speeding.

Yoked to thy car, delicate sparrows drew thee Fleetly to earth, fluttering fast their pinions, From heaven's height through middle ether's liquid Sunny dominions.

Soon they arrived; thou, O divine one, smiling Sweetly from that countenance all immortal, Askedst my grief, wherefore I so had called thee From the bright portal?

What my wild soul languished for, frenzy-stricken? 'Who thy love now is it that ill requiteth, Sappho? and who thee and thy tender yearning Wrongfully slighteth?

Though he now fly, quickly he shall pursue thee-- Scorns he thy gifts? Soon he shall freely offer-- Loves he not? Soon, even wert thou unwilling, Love shall he proffer.'

Come to me then, loosen me from my torment, All my heart's wish unto fulfilment guide thou, Grant and fulfil! And an ally most trusty Ever abide thou. MORETON JOHN WALHOUSE, in _The Gentleman's Magazine_, 1877.

Glittering-throned, undying Aphrodite, Wile-weaving daughter of high Zeus, I pray thee, Tame not my soul with heavy woe, dread mistress, Nay, nor with anguish!

But hither come, if ever erst of old time Thou didst incline, and listenedst to my crying, And from thy father's palace down descending, Camest with golden

Chariot yoked: thee fair swift-flying sparrows Over dark earth with multitudinous fluttering, Pinion on pinion, thorough middle ether Down from heaven hurried.

Quickly they came like light, and thou, blest lady, Smiling with clear undying eyes didst ask me What was the woe that troubled me, and wherefore I had cried to thee:

What thing I longed for to appease my frantic Soul: and Whom now must I persuade, thou askedst, Whom must entangle to thy love, and who now, Sappho, hath wronged thee?

Yea, for if now he shun, he soon shall chase thee; Yea, if he take not gifts, he soon shall give them; Yea, if he love not, soon shall he begin to Love thee, unwilling.

Come to me now too, and from tyrannous sorrow Free me, and all things that my soul desires to Have done, do for me, queen, and let thyself too Be my great ally! J. ADDINGTON SYMONDS, 1893.