Sappho and Phaon, by Mary Robinson, , at sacred-texts.com
Now, round my favord grot let roses rise,
To strew the bank where Phaon wakes from rest;
O! happy buds! to kiss his burning breast,
And die, beneath the lustre of his eyes!
Now, let the timbrels echo to the skies,
Now damsels sprinkel cassia on his vest,
With odrous wreaths of constant myrtle drest,
And flowrs, deep tinted with the rainbows dyes!
From cups of porphyry let nectar flow,
Rich as the perfume of Phoenicias vine!
Now let his dimpling cheek with rapture glow,
While round his heart loves mystic fetters twine;
And let the Grecian Lyre its aid bestow,
In songs of triumph, to proclaim him mine!