But, marking the Lion below,
In silence the spirited boy
Made ready the powerful bow.

From his mother an arrow he caught,
In hope's youthful extacy hot;
And softly said, quick as his thought,
"O grant to my hand the first shot."

His entreaty she could not refuse,
Yet hardly had time to consent;
Impatient his aim not to lose,
The stripling the bow would have bent.

He labour'd to bend it in vain;
It surpass'd all the strength of his years:
The brave boy full of anguish and pain,
Let it fall to the ground with his tears.

His father beheld him with grief,
Seeing both, he yet more and more grieves,
While his eyes, as in search of relief,
Look forth from his refuge of leaves.

But Boulla, who caught his keen eye,
Now grasp'd her adventurous bow,
And, with prayers addrest to the sky,
She aim'd at the Lion below.

Good angels! her arrow direct!