Epistulae

When shall I again clasp you in my longing arms, and be elate with joy in your embraces? When, happily united with you in the same bed, shall I hear you recount your noble deeds in war? Though I shall be pleased with the recital, yet will your relation be often interrupted by our mutual kisses. These always occasion an agreeable pause in discourse: the tongue is rendered more prompt by such alluring delays. But when I think of Troy, of the winds, and the sea, flattering hopes give way to anxious fears. I am alarmed that your fleet is detained by adverse winds. How can you think of sailing when the sea forbids? What man returns to his own country when the winds are against him? why then do you spread your sails to leave it, when the sea forbids? Neptune himself stops up the way to his own city. Whither hurry you so rashly? Let each return to his own home. Whither, I say, O ye Greeks, do you hurry so rashly? Attend to the voice of the forbidding winds. This delay is no work of blind chance; it comes from the Gods. What do you intend by this mighty war, but to regain a base adulteress? Return, ye Grecian ships, while it yet may be done with honor. But why do I thus call you back? Forbid, ye Gods, every bad omen; and may an inviting gale bear you through

the quiet waves. How I envy the lot of the Trojan wives; for, if they are doomed to see the mournful funerals of their husbands, the enemy is however not far off. The youthful bride will with her own hand fix the helmet upon the head of her gallant spouse, and buckle on his shining armour. She will buckle on his armour, and, as she performs the task, often snatch a kiss. This sportive office will be grateful to both. She will partly attend him in his march, affectionately enjoin him to return, and advise him to caution, that he may triumph, and dedicate his arms to Jupiter. He, bearing in mind the fresh injunctions of his beloved spouse, will fight with due care of himself, and think of her whom he has left at home. At his return, she will take from him his shield, and unbuckle the ponderous helmet, while he reclines his wearied breast upon her soft bosom. Unhappy, we are racked with uncertainty; an anxious fear makes us apt to fancy you surrounded with a thousand dangers. Yet while you bear armour, and are fighting in remote lands, I take a pleasure in contemplating the wax which exhibits your likeness. As if you were present, I make use of the softest expressions, and address it in words due only to my Protesilaus: I even embrace and caress it. Surely it must be so: this

image is more than what it seems. Add speech to the statue, and it will be my Protesilaus himself. My eyes are incessantly fixed upon it; I press it to my bosom as if it were indeed my husband, and pour out my complaints to it, vainly hoping for an answer. I swear by yourself and your return, so dear to me above all things; by the nuptial torch, and that glowing heart which is only yours; by your beloved head, which, O ye propitious Gods, restore to me unhurt, and give me to see at length venerable with grey hairs; that I am ready to fly whithersoever you call me, and will readily share your fate, whether that should happen which, alas! I too much fear, or the Gods should graciously preserve you. Permit me to conclude my epistle with a small request: If you have yet any love for me, be sure to show it in the care you take of yourself.

HYPERMNESTRA sends to the only survivor of so many brothers: the rest have all perished by the crime of their wives. I am closely confined, and loaded with a weight of chains. My piety is the sole cause of my punishment. I am deemed guilty, because my hand trembled to urge the sword to my husband's throat. Had I dared to commit the bloody deed, I should have been extolled. It is better to be thus deemed guilty, than please a father by an act of barbarity. I can never repent that my hands are unstained withmurder.

Should my father torture me with the flames that I have not dared to violate, or throw in my face the torches used at the nuptial rites; should be pierce me with the very sword which he gave me for an inhuman purpose, and destroy the wife by the death from which she saved her husband; yet would all his cruelty be insufficient to make my dying lips own repentance: Hypermnestra is not one who will repent of her piety. Let Danaus and my bloody sisters testify penitence for their wickedness; this usually follows deeds of guilt. My heart sickens at the remembrance of that bloody night; and a sudden trembling enervates the joints of my right hand. That hand which was thought strong enough to engage in the murder of a husband, even dreads to write of a murder that it did not commit; yet will I attempt to describe the horrid scene. Twilight had overspread the earth; it was about the close of day, and night hastened on: we, the descendants of Inachus, are led to the palace of the great Pelasgus; and a father-in-law receives, into his house, daughters armed for the

destruction of their husbands. Lamps adorned with gold shine through all the apartments, and impious incense is offered to the unwilling gods. The people invoke Hymen; but Hymen neglects their call: even the wife of Jove forsook her beloved city. The bridegrooms made their appearance, high in wine, and enlivened by the acclamations of their attendants; their anointed heads were adorned with garlands of flowers: they entered their bed-chambers (chambers doomed to be their graves), and reposed their limbs on beds fitter for their funeral piles. Thus they lay overcome with food, wine, and sleep; and a dead silence reigned in unsuspecting Argos. I seemed to hear around me the groans of dying men; I indeed heard them, and it was really as I feared. At this the blood forsook my limbs, the vital heat departed, and a coldness spread itself over all my joints. As the bending reeds are shaken by the mild zephyrs, or the rough northern blasts agitate the poplar leaves; a like, or more

violent shaking seised me. You lay quiet, lulled to rest by the sleepy draught I had given. The commands of a violent father had banished fear. I started up, and seised with a trembling hand the deadly sword. Why should I deceive? Thrice I took hold of the pointed steel, and thrice my feeble hand dropped the hated load. I aimed at your throat; blame me not if I acknowlege the truth: I aimed at your throat the blade I had received of my father. But fear and piety opposed the bloody deed; and my blameless right hand refused the hated task. I tore my purple garments, I tore my hair, and with a faint voice uttered this mournful complaint: "A cruel father you have, Hypermnestra; think of executing his commands, and make Lynceus also a companion to his brothers. I am a woman and a virgin, mild both by nature and years; these gentle hands are unfit to wield the fatal steel: but take courage, and, while he lies defenceless, imitate the bravery of your resolute sisters; it is very probable that, ere now, all their husbands are slain. Alas! if this hand could perpetrate a cruel

murder, it must first be dyed in the blood of its owner. How can they deserve death by possessing their uncle's realms, which yet must have been given to foreign sons-in-law? Even if our husbands have deserved death, what have we done? Why am I urged to a crime, which, if committed, robs me of my claim to piety? What have I to do with a drawn sword? Why are warlike weapons put into the hands of a girl? A spindle and distaff better suit these fingers." These things I revolved with myself; and, as I complained, the mournful words were accompanied with tears, which, gently falling from my eyes, bedewed your naked limbs.

While you sought to embrace me, and half-awake stretched your clasping arms, your hand was almost wounded by the drawn sword. And now, I began to dread my father, the guards, and the approaching light; when these my words roused you from sleep: Rise speedily, grandson of Belus, now the only survivor of so many brothers; unless you are quick in escaping, this is fated to be your eternal night. You start up in a fright; the fetters of sleep are all loosened, and you behold in my hand the pointed weapon. As you ask the cause; Fly, interrupted I, while night permits. You escape, favored by the darkness of the night; while I remain. And now, morning coming on,

Danaus numbers over his slaughtered sons; one only was wanting to complete the bloody crime. He storms at his disappointment in the death of a single kinsman, and complains that too little blood had been shed. I am torn from my father as I embrace his knees, and dragged by the hair to prison. Is this the due reward of my piety? So it is that Juno's resentment has ever pursued our race, since Jove transformed Io into a cow, and the cow into a goddess. But was it not sufficient punishment for the unhappy maid to lose her natural form, and, stripped of her beauty, be no longer able to please the almighty Jove? She stood amazed at her new shape, upon the banks of her flowing parent; and beheld, in this paternal mirror, the unusual horns. Striving to complain, her mouth was filled with lowings; and she was equally terrified at her form and

voice. Unhappy maid, why this mad rage? Why do you wonder at your own shadow? Why do you number your feet formed to new joints? This beauteous rival, once dreaded by the sister of almighty Jove, now allays her raging hunger with leaves and grass: she drinks of the running stream, and is astonished to behold her own shape; she even trembles at the arms she wears, and thinks them aimed against herself. You, lately so rich as to be deemed worthy even of almighty Jove, now lie naked and defenceless in the unsheltered fields. You wildly run through the sea, over lands, and through kindred rivers. Even seas, lands and rivers, permit your wanderings. What is the cause of your flight? Why, Io, do you thus traverse the spacious main? It is impossible to fly from your own shadow. Whither, daughter of Inachus, do you run? It is the same individual who flies and who pursues; you lead, and at the same time follow the leader. The Nile, which pours into the ocean through seven floodgates, restored to her former shape this beloved of Jove. But why should I

mention remote times, and accounts for which I am beholden to old age? Even the present years afford ground of complaint. My father and uncle are at war: we are driven from our kingdom and home, and wander exiles on earth's remotest verge. My savage uncle singly possesses the throne and sceptre; we, a destitute crowd, follow, disconsolate, a helpless old man. You only (how small a part!) remain of a whole nation of brothers. I mourn both for those who perished, and those who gave the fatal stroke. I have not only lost a multitude of brothers, but also a like number of sisters; and both losses equally demand my tears. Lo, even I am reserved to a cruel punishment, because I saved your life! What fate is left for the guilty, when I, who merit only praise, am thus accused? And must I, once the hundredth of a kindred

tribe, suffer death for saving one of so many brothers? But, my dear Lynceus, if you have any regard to the piety of your sister, or any remembrance of her love, and the life she gave you, help me in this extremity; or, if death should set me free before you can arrive, bear privately my breathless frame to the funeral pile, and sprinkle my ashes with unfeigned tears. When you have faithfully performed the last obsequies, engrave upon my tomb this short inscription:

Hypermnestra, an unhappy exile, was, as a reward for her piety, unjustly doomed to that death from which she had saved her brother.

I wish to write more; but my hand fails, disabled by a weight of chains; and ill-boding fears deprive me of the power of reflection.

AT the sight of this letter written with an anxious hand, will you not instantly know the characters to be mine? Or must even the name of the unhappy writer be added, to prove the person by whom the few lines are sent? You may perhaps wonder why I address you in alternate measures, when lyric numbers so much better suit my genius. But unsuccessful love complains in melancholy notes, and elegy is the most proper for the expression of my woe. No harp can serve to paint my flowing tears. I burn like a ripened field of corn, when driving east-winds spread the catching flames. Phaon honors the distant fields of burning Ætna, while flames fierce as those of Ætna prey upon my heart. I no more take pleasure in forming my numbers to the tuneful strings: music and poetry are the employment of a mind at ease. The dames of Pyrrha, Methymna, and the other cities of Lesbos, please no more. Anactorie and fair Cydno have

lost their charms; and Atthis, of late so grateful to my sight; with hundreds of others, once the objects of my guilty love. Faithless man, yo alone engross that heart, formerly shared by many. You are happy in a fine face, and years fit for pleasure and dalliance. O enchanting looks, so fatal to me and my repose! Take the harp and bow, and you will pass with all for Apollo. Adorn your head with wreaths of ivy, and you will appear beautiful as Bacchus. Yet Apollo was enamored of Daphne, and Bacchus of the Cretan maid, though neither of them excelled in lyric measures. To me the Muses dictate the sweetest lays, and the name of Sappho resounds through all nations. Even great Alcæus, the partner of my country and my harp, has not more renown,

though he sings in loftier notes. If unfriendly nature has denied me an engaging form, yet the charms of my wit abundantly compensate that deficiency. I am short of stature; yet I have a name that fills the whole earth, and by my own merit have gained this extensive renown. What if I am not fair? Was not even Perseus pleased with Andromede, an Æthiopian dame? Doves of various colours often unite, and the white turtle matches with the shining green. If no charms can gain your heart but such as equal your own, no charms will be ever able to gain Phaon. yet when you read my lays, I then seemed formed to please: you were never enough delighted with my voice, and swore that it became me alone to speak. I remember when wont to sing (for, ah, how vast a memory have lovers!) how you stopped my tongue with kisses; even these you praised: I pleased in all, but more particularly when united with you is the close bonds of love. Then you were fired by my amorous sport; each motion, each glance, each word inflamed you, till, dissolving in tumultuous raptures, gentle faintness surprised our wearied limbs. But now the Sicilian

maids take up all your thoughts. Why was I born at Lesbos? Why am I not a native of Sicily?

But ah! Sicilian nymphs, beware, and banish from your isle this deceitful wanderer. Be not deceived with the fictions of an insinuating tongue; those faithless vows have all been made to Sappho. You too, Erycina, who range the Sicilian hills, think that I am thine, and pity the sorrows of your poetess. Shall cruel fortune still pursue the same sad tenor, and obstinately persist in heaping woes upon me? Scarcely had I completed my sixth year, when the ashes of a deceased parent drank my tears. My brother next, despising wealth and honor, burned with an ignoble flame, and rashly plunged himself into shameful distresses. Reduced to want, he traversed the blue ocean in a nimble bark, and basely hunted after those riches which he had foolishly lost. My many good counsels he repaid with hatred; such was the reward of my piety and plain-dealing. And, as if fortune had determined to oppress me without ceasing, an infant daughter has been lately added to my cares. Yet adverse fate still pursues me, and sends you, the last and greatest of my woes. Alas! How much is this tempestuous voyage of life agitated by unfriendly gales? My locks no more hang curled in ringlets round my neck; nor do the glowing gems adorn my joints. I am clad in homely weeds; no braids of gold bind the flowing tresses, nor do Arabian unguents breathe their sweet perfumes. For whom shall I adorn myself, unhappy wretch? whom shall I thus study to please? The only object of my tenderness is gone. The light darts of Cupid easily wound my gentle heart; and still there is some cause, why Sappho still should love. Whether the Sisters have so fixed my doom from the birth, and formed my life to the softer ties of Venus; or my manners are fashioned by my studies, and those arts in which I excel; the Muse certainly forms my mind to answer the molting notes of my tongue. What wonder, if my tender age yields to the gentle violence, and those years that recommend to the addresses of men? How was I afraid that Aurora might seise you for her Cephalus? And she would have done it, had she not been detained by her