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.