Classic Poem

The subtle Mirrour, which to thee presents
Love in its brightest hue, to borrow'd charms
Owes the equipment of its fatal arms,
And levels them at me — yet no defence
Can against these avail me; though pretence
And fiction generate the soft alarms;
Though a mere shadow's gleam the soul disarms,
And beauties not their own: the recompence
Of those deceits the fabled youth shall tell
In that sweet flower that mourn'd his early doom,
Who saw and perish'd at the melting hour
Of his own form enamour'd; — why resume
(Thus warn'd) the error, if Narcissus fell? —
But where on earth is thy resembling flower?