Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XXII.

The Phrygian rock, that braves the storm,     Was once a weeping matron's form;[1]     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, turned 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![2]     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!