by Tobias Smollett (1721 - 1771)
When Sappho struck the quiv'ring wire,
The throbbing breast was all on fire:
And when she rais'd the vocal lay,
The captive soul was charm'd away!
But had the nymph, possest 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 an hapless flame,
Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame.