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Sappho and Phaon, by Mary Robinson, [1796], at

XXXVI. Her confirmed Despair.

Lead me, Sicilian Maids, to haunted bow’rs,
While yon pale moon displays her faintest beams
O’er blasted woodlands, and enchanted streams,
Whose banks infect the breeze with pois’nous flow’rs.
Ah! lead me, where the barren mountain tow’rs,
Where no sounds echo, but the night-owl’s screams,
Where some lone spirit of the desart gleams,
And lurid horrors wing the fateful hours!
Now goaded frenzy grasps my shrinking brain,
Her touch absorbs the crystal fount of woe!
My blood rolls burning through each gasping vein;
Away, lost Lyre! unless thou can’st bestow
A charm, to lull that agonizing pain,
Which those who never lov’d, can never know!

Next: XXXVII. Foresees her Death.