Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/215

Book 13. Jove, with a Nod, comply'd with her Desire; Around the Body flam'd the Fun'ral Fire; The Pile decreas'd, that lately seem'd so high, And Sheets of Smoak roll'd upward to the Sky: As humid Vapours from a marshy Bog, Rise by Degrees, condensing into Fog, That intercept the Sun's enliv'ning Ray, And with a Cloud infect the chearful Day. The sooty Ashes wafted by the Air, Whirl round, and thicken in a Body there; Then take a Form, which their own Heat, and Fire With active Life, and Energy inspire. Its Lightness makes it seem to fly, and soon It skims on real Wings, that are its own; A real Bird, it beats the breezy Wind, Mix'd with a thousand Sisters of the Kind, That, from the same Formation newly sprung, Up-born aloft on plumy Pinions hung. Thrice round the Pile advanc'd the circling Throng, Thrice, with their Wings, a whizzing Consort rung: In the fourth Flight their Squadron they divide, Rank'd in two diff'rent Troops, on either Side: Then two, and two, inspir'd with martial Rage, From either Troop in equal Pairs engage. Each Combatant with Beak, and Pounces press'd, In wrathful Ire, his Adversary's Breast; Each falls a Victim, to preserve the Fame Of that great Hero, whence their Being came. From him their Courage, and their Name they take, And, as they liv'd, they dye for Memnon's Sake. Punctual to Time, with each revolving Year, In fresh Array the Champion Birds appear; Again, prepar'd with vengeful Minds, they come To bleed, in Honour of the Soldier's Tomb. Therefore in others it appear'd not strange, To grieve for Hecuba's unhappy Change: But