Soon the rosy flush has left his cheek, and all his goodly strength is gone, and the very form that Echo once had loved. He lays his weary head on the green grass, and darkness covers his longing eyes. And now he has entered the halls of the dead, and in the Stygian wave still gazes on his own image. The Naiads, his sisters, with tresses torn, weep for their brother, the Dryads wail aloud, while Echo wails again. And now they make ready the pyre and the funeral torches and the bier. But in vain they seek the dead; they find but a flower of golden (croceum) hue, its heart enringed by (set round with) white leaves.[[1]]
[1]. I am indebted to Miss Camilla Jebb for this translation.
It is interesting to quote, in comparison with this, the rendering that the poet Gay gives of the old tale of the transformation:—
His spreading fingers shoot in verdant leaves:
Through his pale veins green sap now gently flows;
And in a short-lived flower his beauty blows.
Let vain Narcissus warn each female breast
That beauty’s but a transient gift at best;