Thus did the nymphs in vain caress the boy,
He still was lovely, but he still was coy,
When one fair virgin of the slighted train
Thus pray’d the gods, provoked by his disdain:
“O! may he love like me, and love like me in vain!”
Rhamnusia pitied the neglected fair,
And with just vengeance answer’d to her prayer.
There stands a fountain in a darksome wood,
Nor stain’d with falling leaves, nor rising mud,
Untroubled by the breath of winds it rests,
Unsullied by the touch of men or beasts;
High bowers of shady trees above it grow,
And rising grass and cheerful greens below.
Pleased with the form and coolness of the place,
And overheated by the morning chase,
Narcissus on the grassy verdure lies;
But while within the crystal fount he tries
To quench his heat, he feels new heat arise:
For, as his own bright image he survey’d,
He fell in love with the fantastic shade,
And o’er the fair resemblance hung unmoved;
Nor knew, fond youth! it was himself he loved.
The well-turn’d neck and shoulders he descries,
The spacious forehead, and the sparkling eyes,
The hands that Bacchus might not scorn to show,
And hair that round Apollo’s head might flow,
With all the purple youthfulness of face,
That gently blushes in the watery glass.
By his own flames consumed the lover lies,
And gives himself the wound by which he dies.
To the cold water oft he joins his lips,
Oft catching at the beauteous shade he dips
His arms, as often from himself he slips.
Nor knows he who it is his arms pursue
With eager clasps, but loves he knows not who.
What could, fond youth, this helpless passion move?
What kindled in thee this unpitied love?
Thy own warm blush within the water glows,
With thee the colour’d shadow comes and goes,
Its empty being on thyself relies;
Step thou aside and the frail charmer dies.
Still o’er the fountain’s watery gleam he stood,
Mindless of sleep, and negligent of food,
Still view’d his face, and languish’d as he view’d.
At length he raised his head, and thus began
To vent his griefs, and tell the woods his pain:
“You trees,” says he, “and thou surrounding grove,
Who oft have been the kindly scenes of love,
Tell me, if e’er within your shades did lie
A youth so tortured, so perplex’d as I?
I, who before me see the charming fair,
While there he stands, and yet he stands not there:
In such a maze of love my thoughts are lost;
And yet no bulwark’d town nor distant coast
Preserves the beauteous youth from being seen,
No mountains rise nor oceans flow between;
A shallow water hinders my embrace,
And yet the lovely mimic wears a face
That kindly smiles, and when I bend to join
My lips to his, he fondly bends to mine.
Hear, gentle youth, and pity my complaint;
Come from thy well, thou fair inhabitant.
My charms an easy conquest have obtain’d
O’er other hearts, by thee alone disdain’d.
But why should I despair? I’m sure he burns
With equal flames, and languishes by turns.
Whene’er I stoop, he offers at a kiss,
And when my arms I stretch, he stretches his;
His eyes with pleasure on my face he keeps,
He smiles my smiles, and when I weep he weeps:
Whene’er I speak his moving lips appear
To utter something, which I cannot hear.
“Ah, wretched me! I now begin too late
To find out all the long perplex’d deceit;
It is myself I love, myself I see,
The gay delusion is a part of me;
I kindle up the fires by which I burn,
And my own beauties from the well return.
Whom should I court? how utter my complaint?
Enjoyment but produces my restraint,
And too much plenty makes me die for want.
How gladly would I from myself remove!
And at a distance set the thing I love;
My breast is warm’d with such unusual fire,
I wish him absent whom I most desire;
And now I faint with grief, my fate draws nigh,
In all the pride of blooming youth I die.
Death will the sorrows of my heart relieve.
O! might the visionary youth survive,
I should with joy my latest breath resign!
But, oh! I see his fate involved in mine.”
This said, the weeping youth again return’d
To the clear fountain, where again he burn’d.
His tears defaced the surface of the well,
With circle after circle as they fell;
And now the lovely face but half appears,
O’errun with wrinkles and deform’d with tears.
“Ah! whither,” cries Narcissus, “dost thou fly?
Let me still feed the flame by which I die;
Let me still see, though I’m no further bless’d.”
Then rends his garment off and beats his breast;
His naked bosom redden’d with the blow,
In such a blush as purple clusters show,
Ere yet the sun’s autumnal heats refine
Their sprightly juice, and mellow it to wine;
The glowing beauties of his breast he spies,
And with a new redoubled passion dies.
As wax dissolves, as ice begins to run
And trickle into drops before the sun,
So melts the youth, and languishes away,
His beauty withers, and his limbs decay,
And none of those attractive charms remain,
To which the slighted Echo sued in vain.
She saw him in his present misery,
Whom, spite of all her wrongs, she grieved to see.
She answer’d sadly to the lover’s moan,
Sigh’d back his sighs, and groan’d to every groan.
“Ah youth! beloved in vain,” Narcissus cries;
“Ah youth! beloved in vain,” the nymph replies.
“Farewell,” says he; the parting sound scarce fell
From his faint lips, but she replied, “Farewell.”
Then on the unwholesome earth he gasping lies,
Till death shuts up those self-admiring eyes.
To the cold shades his fitting ghost retires,
And in the Stygian waves itself admires.
For him the Naiads and the Dryads mourn,
Whom the sad Echo answers in her turn;
And now the sister-nymphs prepare his urn:
When, looking for his corpse, they only found
A rising stalk with yellow blossoms crown’d.