‘Fairest of sights on the dull black earth,’ some say, ‘Is a host of horse in battle array.’ ‘A phalanx on foot,’ another will cry, ‘Or a navy full sail athwart the sky.’
‘But nay! ’Tis the lover’s beloved,’ I ween And easy the proof and plain to be seen; For the sum of all beauty had Helen surveyed, Yet of him, as fairest, her choice she made,
Who all the honor of Troy’s towers destroyed. No thought of child or parent dear alloyed Her love. Its distant dearness led her far astray; For ever ’tis easy to bend a woman’s way,
If only she hold lightly what is near. See to it thou, Anactoria dear, That, parted, we thy memory still shall share Of her whose silent footfall’s music fair
Sounds sweeter, and whose face sheds beams more bright Than the noisy flash of the chariot-fight, Or tramp of footmen on their glittering way When Lydia’s force deploys in full display.
Too well we know ’tis not for man to gain His heart’s desire,—yet sweeter the pain, Longing for love we once have shared, Than forgetting how happily then we fared.
Agamemnon is mentioned in one of the new fragments (tentatively restored E. 85), which is an especially beautiful dialogue between Sappho and her dumpling pupil Gongyla, which might be called _Intimations of Immortality_:
My coming death I plainly now foresee; Long to the end of life it cannot be.
How dost thou such a sad event divine? Unto thy dear ones pray reveal the sign.
In dream to me Death’s angel, Hermes, came Within my chamber; calling me by name, ‘Come,’ said he, and he touched me with his wand. And I, of life and strife no longer fond, Replied: ‘I go with gladness, for I swear By blessed Cypris that no more I care To live, since love is passing from me. Fain Am I to die despite my other gain In wealth and honor. Only do I plead To field Elysian, whither thou didst lead Atrides Agamemnon and the flower Of the Achaeans, take me in my hour, And set me in that dewy vale to bloom, Perchance again with beauty and perfume That love invite, although with kindlier fate— Not of ignoble souls, but of the great.’
Sappho knows the story of Leda and the egg. Edmonds (E. 97) reads a new text: “They say that once upon a time Leda found hidden an egg of hyacinthine hue.” But I prefer the older, better version, which O’Hara renders: