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 pliant 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 de lay’d.
The final master-stroke at last imposed,
And now the neat 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.”
Then, 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 imbolden’d, flies
Far from his guide, and soars among the skies.
The softening wax, that felt a nearer sun,
Dissolved apace, and soon began to run;
The youth in vain his melting pinions shakes,
His feathers gone, no longer air he takes;
O! father, father! as he strove to cry,
Down to the sea he tumbled from on high,
And found his fate; yet still subsists by fame
Among those waters that retain his name.
The father, now no more a father, cries:
“Ho, Icarus! where are you?” as he flies;
“Where shall I seek my boy?” he cries again,
And saw his feathers scatter’d on the main.
Then cursed his art; and funeral rites conferr’d,
Naming the country from the youth interr’d.
A partridge, from a neighbouring stump, beheld
The sire his monumental marble build;
Who, with peculiar call and fluttering wing,
Chirp’d joyful, and malicious seem’d to sing;
The only bird of all its kind, and late
Transform’d in pity to a feather’d state:
From whence, Daedalus, thy guilt we date.
His sister’s son, when not twelve years were pass’d,
Was, with his uncle, as a scholar placed;
The unsuspecting mother saw his parts
And genius fitted for the finest arts.
This soon appear’d; for when the spiny bone
In fishes’ backs was by the stripling known,
A rare invention thence he learn’d to draw,
Filed teeth in iron, and made the grating saw.
He was the first, that from a knob of brass
Made two straight arms with widening stretch to pass;
That, while one stood upon the centre’s place,
The other round it drew a circling space.
Daedalus envied this, and from the top
Of fair Minerva’s temple let him drop;
Feigning, that, as he lean’d upon the tower,
Careless he stoop’d too much, and tumbled o’er.
The goddess, who the ingenious still befriends,
On this occasion her assistance lends;
His arms with feathers, as he fell, she veils,
And in the air a new-made bird he sails.
The quickness of his genius, once so fleet,
Still in his wings remains, and in his feet;
Still, though transform’d, his ancient name he keeps,
And with low flight the new-shorn stubble sweeps,
Declines the lofty trees, and thinks it best
To brood in hedge-rows o’er its humble nest;
And, in remembrance of the former ill,
Avoids the heights and precipices still.
At length, fatigued with long laborious flights,
On fair Sicilia’s plains the artist lights;
Where Cocalus, the king, that gave him aid,
Was, for his kindness, with esteem repaid.
Athens no more her doleful tribute sent,
That hardship gallant Theseus did prevent;
Their temples hung with garlands, they adore
Each friendly god, but most Minerva’s power;
To her, to Jove, to all, their altars smoke,
They each with victims and perfumes invoke.
Now talking Fame, through every Grecian town,
Had spread, immortal Theseus, thy renown.
From him, the neighbouring nations, in distress,
In suppliant terms implore a kind redress.