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!