The Phrygian rock, that braves the storm,
Was once a weeping matron’s form;
And Progne, hapless, frantic maid,
Is now a swallow in the shade.
Oh! that a mirror’s form were mine,
That I might catch that smile divine;
And like my own fond fancy be,
Reflecting thee, and only thee;
Or could I be the robe which holds
That graceful form within its folds;
Or, turn’d into a fountain, lave
Thy beauties in my circling wave.
Would I were perfume for thy hair,
To breathe my soul in fragrance there;
Or, better still, the zone, that lies
Close to thy breast, and feels its sighs.
Or even those envious pearls that show
So faintly round that neck of snow —
Yes, I would be a happy gem
Like them to hang, to fade like them.
What more would thy Anacreon be?
Oh, any thing that touches thee;
Nay, sandals for those airy feet —
Even to be trod by them were sweet!