Poem by Thomas Moore

From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 22

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!

1. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 54
2. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 46
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 56
4. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 52
5. From “Irish Melodies”. 113. Alone in Crowds to Wander On

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