_Ode Xvi._

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, To sparkle with that smile divine; And like my heart I then should be, Reflecting thee, and only thee! Or were I, love, the robe which flows O'er every charm that secret glows, In many a lucid fold to swim, And cling and grow to every limb! Oh! could I, as the streamlet's wave, Thy warmly-mellowing beauties lave, Or float as perfume on thine hair,

And breathe my soul in fragrance there! I wish I were the zone, that lies Warm to thy breast, and feels its sighs! Or like 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! anything that touches thee. Nay, sandals for those airy feet-- Thus to be press'd by thee were sweet!