Winnows the buxom air, till, within soar Of towering eagles, to all the fowls he seems A phoenix⁠—gazed by all, as that sole bird, When, to enshrine his relics in the Sun’s Bright temple, to Egyptian Thebes he flies. At once on the eastern cliff of Paradise He lights, and to his proper shape returns, A Seraph winged. Six wings he wore, to shade His lineaments divine: the pair that clad Each shoulder broad came mantling o’er his breast With regal ornament; the middle pair Girt like a starry zone his waist, and round Skirted his loins and thighs with downy gold And colours dipt in heaven; the third his feet Shadowed from either heel with feathered mail, Sky-tinctured grain. Like Maia’s son he stood, And shook his plumes, that heavenly fragrance filled The circuit wide. Straight knew him all the bands Of Angels under watch; and to his state And to his message high in honour rise; For on some message high they guessed him bound. Their glittering tents he passed, and now is come Into the blissful field, through groves of myrrh, And flowering odours, cassia, nard, and balm,