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.