In offering a new translation of such songs as these it should be fully realized that no translation of a really beautiful poem can possibly represent the original in any fair or complete fashion. Unfortunately languages differ; and in translating a single word of Sappho into a word of English which fairly represents its meaning, one may easily have lost the musical charm of the original, and still further he may have broken up the general charm or spirit which the word has because of its associations with the spirit of the whole song. It ought to be clear that in preserving the literal meanings of the words in a song the translator may be compelled to part in large measure with the musical note that comes from assonance, alliteration, and association; or again that in rendering the music as Swinburne could do, he may have diluted or even lost the real meaning and spirit of the poem; and finally that, though the spirit of the poem may be seized ever so effectively, the working out of the details of music and meaning may fail to respond to those of the original. Of course a slight measure of successful representation may be attained. But whatever poetical value anyone senses in these translations must be almost indefinitely heightened by imagination, if the beauty, grace, and power of the original are to be realized. Why then translate at all? Well, just because of a desire to make an English reader share even in a small measure the pleasure the translator feels in the original and to furnish him with paths along which his imagination may lawfully climb toward the height reached by this strangely gifted woman’s pen.
O all ye Nereids crowned with golden hair My brother bring, back home, I pray. His heart’s true wish both good and fair Accomplished, every way.
May he for former errors make amend— If once to sin his feet did go— Become a joy, again, to every friend, A grief to every foe.
O may our house through no man come to shame, O may he now be glad to bring Some share of honor to his sister’s name. Her heart with joy will sing.
Some bitter words there were that passed his lip,— For me the wrath of love made fierce And him resentful,—just as he took ship, When to the quick did pierce