When Sappho struck the quivering wire,
The throbbing breast was all on fire:
And when she raised the vocal lay,
The captive soul was charm'd away!

But had the nymph possessed with these
Thy softer, chaster power to please;
Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth,
Thy native smiles of artless truth;

The worm of Grief had never prey'd
On the forsaken love-sick maid:
Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame,
Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame.