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!

[1] The compliment of this ode is exquisitely delicate, and so singular for the period in which Anacreon lived, when the scale of love had not yet been graduated Into all its little progressive refinements, that if we were inclined to question the authenticity of the poem, we should find a much more plausible argument in the features of modern gallantry which it bears, than in any of those fastidious conjectures upon which some commentators have presumed so far.

[2] The women of Greece not only wore this zone, but condemned themselves to fasting, and made use of certain drugs and powders for the same purpose. To these expedients they were compelled, in consequence of their inelegant fashion of compressing the waist into a very narrow compass, which necessarily caused an excessive tumidity in the bosom. See "Dioscorides," lib. v.