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.