A new Narcissus gazed himself to death,
Picturing his lonely beauty in the flood,
The river, onward flowing, flouts the breath
That charm’d the fire, Promethean, from its mud:
Who topple on a pinnacle, scorn the steps
That usher to the pride, whereon they stand;
Yet Nature’s structure swerves not, men, adepts
At self-deception, judge from whence they’ve scann’d;
View the whole plot, and just should all appear,
What’s beauteous, the relief that Nature wears,
The base, by difficult straits and shoals, should steer
To quicken praise, shunning monotonous cares:
What fail’d of high fulfilment, where it lack’d,
Should live in others’ worth when all were pack’d.