My upward limbs the cygnet’s plume
Invests; my shoulders, fingers feel
The feathery softness o’er them steal.
Fleeter than Icarus now I’ll haste,
A tuneful swan, to Libya’s waste,
And heaving sands, where Bospor’s wave
Tosses, or Arctic tempests rave.
Me Colchis, Dacia me shall learn,
Who hides her fear of Marsian stern;
Me Scythia’s hordes, the well-trained son