April 16, the Daffodil (Narcissus poeticusj flowers. 



As the spring advances, the Daffodil erects itself on a more elevated peduncle, whose 

 flower is pale yellow, and has six petals affixed to a cup-like nectary. From the delicacy of 

 these flowers the ancients drew the poetic fancy of a beautiful youth converted into this flower. 



There stands a fountain in a darksome wood, 



Nor stained with falling leaves nor rising mud; 



Untroubled by the breath of winds it rests, 



Unsully'd by the touch of men or beasts ; 



High bow'rs of shady trees above it grow, 



And rising grass and cheerful flow'rs blow. 



Pleas'd with the form and coolness of the place, 



And over-heated by the morning chace, 



Narcissus on the grassy verdure lies, 



But whilst within the chrystal fount he tries 



To quench his heat, he feels new fires 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 unmov'd, 



Nor knew, proud youth! it was himself he lov'd. 



The well-turn'd neck and shoulders he descries, 



The spacious forehead, and the sparkling eyes ; 



The hand 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 wat'ry 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, and loves he knows not who. 



Still o'er the fountain's wat'ry gleam he stood, 



Heedless of sleep, and negligent of food, 



Still view'd his face, and languish'd as he view'd. 



At length he rais'd his head, and thus began 



To vent his griefs, and tell the woods his pain. 



* You trees," cries 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 tortur'd, so perplex'd as I? 



" I, who before me see the charming fair, 



" Whilst there she stands, and yet she stands not there: 



« In such a maze of love my thoughts are lost, 



« And yet no bulwark'd town, nor distant coast, 



