The NARCISSUS

As pendent o'er the limpid stream I bow'd my snowey pride, And languish'd in a fruitless flame, For what the fates deny'd;

The fair PASTORA chanc'd to pass, With such an Angel air, I saw her in the wat'ry glass, And lov'd the rival fair.

Ye fates, no longer let me pine A self-admiring sweet, Permit me by your grace divine To kiss the fair one's feet:

That if by chance the gentle maid, My fragrance should admire, I may,—upon her bosom laid, In sister sweets expire.