ABSTRACT
Stranger, that passest by my Lesbian tomb, Say not that Mitylene's bard is dead ; 'Twas by men's hands upraised, but by one doom Such works to swift forgetfulness are sped. If for the Muses' sake thou ask-from whom A flower of each in my nine books I setKnow that, escaped from Death's devouring gloom No sun shall lyric Sappho's name forget.
