He ceased, and then arose the stalwart king, Teucer; then also rose Meriones, The valiant comrade of Idomeneus. The lots were shaken in a brazen helm, And Teucer’s lot was first. He straightway sent A shaft with all his strength, but made no vow Of a choice hecatomb of firstling lambs To Phoebus, monarch-god. He missed the bird, Such was the will of Phoebus, but he struck, Close to her foot, the cord that made her fast. The keen shaft severed it; the dove flew up Into the heavens; the fillet dropped to earth Amid the loud applauses of the Greeks. And then Meriones made haste to take The bow from Teucer’s hand. Long time he held The arrow aimed, the while he made a vow To Phoebus, the great archer, promising A chosen hecatomb of firstling lambs; Then, looking toward the dove, as high in air She wheeled beneath the clouds, he pierced her breast Beneath the wing; the shaft went through and fell, Fixed in the ground, beside Meriones, While the bird settled on the galley’s mast With drooping head and open wings. The breath