Classic Poem

TO HIS MISTRESS.

The gods o'er mortals prove their sway,
 And steal them from thernselves away;
Transform'd by their almighty hand,
Sad Niobe an image stands;
And Philomel, upborne on wings,
Thro' air her mournful story sings.
 Would heav'n, indulgent to my vow,
The happy change I wish, allow;
The envy'd mirror I would be,
That thou might'st always gaze on me;
And could my naked heart appear,
Thou'dst see thyself—for thou art there.
O! were I made thy folding vest,
That thou might'st clasp me to thy breast!
Or turn'd into a fount, to lave
Thy naked beauties in my wave!
Thy bosom-cincture I would grow,
To warm thy little hills of snow;
Thy ointment, in rich fragrant streams
To wander o'er those beauteous limbs;
Thy chain of shining pearl—to deck,
And close embrace thy graceful neck:
A very sandal I would be
To tread on—if trod on by thee!