The stout tree quivered, and the bird Flapped with her wings in terror and despair, Fluttering for freedom, and around were heard Shouts, as admiring joy the clamorous concourse stirred.
LXX.

Next him stood Mnestheus, eager for the prize, And straight the bowstring to his breast updrew, Aiming aloft.

The lightning of his eyes Went with the arrow, as he twanged the yew.
Ah pity! Fortune sped the shaft untrue.
The bird he missed, but cut the flaxen ties That held the feet, and cleft the knots in two.
And forth, exulting, through the windy skies, Into the darkening clouds the loosened captive flies.
LXXI.

Then, quick as thought, his arrow on the string, Eurytion to his brother breathed a prayer, Marking the pigeon, as she clapped her wing Beneath a cloud, he pierced her.

Breathless there She drops; her life is with the stars of air, The bolt is in her breast.