In tedious exile now too long detain’d Daedalus languish’d for his native land; The sea foreclosed his flight, yet thus he said; “Though earth and water in subjection laid, O cruel Minos, thy dominion be, We’ll go through air; for sure the air is free.” Then to new arts his cunning thought applies, And to improve the work of nature tries. A row of quills, in gradual order placed, Rise by degrees in length from first to last; As on a cliff the ascending thicket grows; Or different reeds the rural pipe compose: Along the middle runs a twine of flax, The bottom stems are join’d by plaint wax; Thus, well compact, a hollow bending brings The fine composure into real wings. His boy, young Icarus, that near him stood, Unthinking of his fate, with smiles pursued The floating feathers, which the moving air Bore loosely from the ground, and wafted here and there: Or with the wax impertinently play’d, And with his childish tricks the great design delay’d. The final masterstroke at last imposed, And now, the great machine completely closed; Fitting his pinions on, a flight he tries, And hung self-balanced in the beaten skies. Then thus instructs his child: “My boy, take care To wing your course along the middle air: If low, the surges wet your flagging plumes; If high, the sun the melting wax consumes. Steer between both: nor to the northern skies, Nor South Orion, turn your giddy eyes, But follow me; let me before you lay Rules for the flight, and mark the pathless way.” Thus teaching, with a fond concern, his son, He took the untried wings, and fix’d them on: But fix’d with trembling hands; and, as he speaks, The tears roll gently down his aged cheeks; Then kiss’d, and in his arms embraced him fast, But knew not this embrace must be the last; And mounting upward, as he wings his flight, Back on his charge he turns his aching sight; As parent birds, when first their callow care Leave the high nest to tempt the liquid air; Then cheers him on, and oft, with fatal art, Reminds the stripling to perform his part. These, as the angler at the silent brook, Or mountain shepherd leaning on his crook, Or gaping ploughman, from the vale descries, They stare, and view them with religious eyes, And straight conclude them gods; since none but they Through their own azure skies could find a way. Now Delos, Paros, on the left are seen, And Samos, favour’d by Jove’s haughty queen; Upon the right, the isle Lebynthos named, And fair Calymne for its honey famed. When now the boy, whose childish thoughts aspire To loftier aims, and make him ramble higher, Grown wild and wanton, more embolden’d flies Far from his guide, and scars among the skies: The softening wax, that felt a nearer sun,