Stymphalus

The birds in swarming thousands far and near,
As he descends the foul declivity,
Sudden as squall on mighty pinion flee
Above the dismal, agitated mere.

Some, flying low, in network cross nor fear
To brush the face oft kissed by Omphale;
Whereat, his victor shaft adjusting, he,
Archer superb, strides through the marsh-reeds drear.

Thenceforth, by arrows riddled, the frighted cloud
Pours down a horrid flood with screamings loud
And streaked with fiery bolts of murderous levin.

At last the Sun across the thick cloud sees,
Through openings made by shafts of Hercules,
The blood-drenched Hero smiling up to Heaven.