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.