From skirt to skirt of heaven, with stormy sway, A cloud rolls on, and darkens all the day. Near and more near descends the dreadful shade, And now in battleous array displayed, On sounding wings, and screaming in their ire, The cranes rush onward, and the fight require. The pygmy warriors eye, with fearless glare, The host thick swarming o'er the burthened air: Thick swarming now, but to their native land Doomed to return a scanty, straggling band.-- When sudden, darting down the depth of heaven, Fierce on the expecting foe the cranes are driven. The kindling phrensy every bosom warms, The region echoes to the crash of arms: Loose feathers from the encountering armies fly, And in careering whirlwinds mount the sky. To breathe from toil upsprings the panting crane, Then with fresh vigour downward darts again. Success in equal balance hovering hangs. Here, on the sharp spear, mad with mortal pangs, The bird transfixed in bloody vortex whirls, Yet fierce in death the threatening talon curls; There, while the life-blood bubbles from his wound, With little feet the pygmy beats the ground; Deep from his breast the short, short sob he draws, And, dying, curses the keen-pointed claws. Trembles the thundering field, thick covered o'er With falchions, mangled wings, and streaming gore, And pygmy arms, and beaks of ample size; And here a claw, and there a finger lies. Encompassed round with heaps of slaughtered foes, All grim in blood the pygmy champion glows; And on the assailing host impetuous springs, Careless of nibbling bills, and flapping wings; And midst the tumult wheresoe'er he turns, The battle with redoubled fury burns. From every side the avenging cranes, amain, Throng, to o'erwhelm this terror of the plain. When suddenly (for such the will of Jove) A fowl enormous, sousing from above, The gallant chieftain clutched, and, soaring high, (Sad chance of battle!) bore him up the sky. The cranes pursue, and, clustering in a ring, Chatter triumphant round the captive king. But, ah! what pangs each pygmy bosom wrung, When, now to cranes a prey, on talons hung, High in the clouds they saw their helpless lord, His wriggling form still lessening as he soared! Lo! yet again, with unabated rage, In mortal strife the mingling hosts engage. The crane with darted bill assaults the foe, Hovering; then wheels aloft to scape the blow: The dwarf in anguish aims the vengeful wound; But whirls in empty air the falchion round. Such was the scene, when midst the loud alarms Sublime the eternal Thunderer rose in arms; When Briareus, by mad ambition driven, Heaved Pelion huge, and hurled it high at heaven. Jove rolled redoubling thunders from on high, Mountains and bolts encountered in the sky;