ODE II. To Sappho

Not Philomela's liquid Throat, Nor dear Amintor's softer Note O, charmer of the Lesbian Plains! Can equal thy melodious Strains.

When, in thy bright enchanting Page, I view the tender, am'rous Rage, The melting Lines my Bosom move, And all my yielding Soul is Love.

And sure thy raptur'd Notes have Art To melt the stubborn marble Heart; To wake the soft consenting Glow Ev'n in Amintor's Breast of Snow.

If magic Numbers can controul His native Cruelty of Soul, O, bring the silver-sounding Lyre, To wake the gentle young Desire!

Harmonious Songstress! I no more Will Cytherea's Power adore, Since such dissolving Numbers prove That Sappho is the Queen of Love.