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,