“Here, in the brakes and savage dens of beasts,He nursed his daughter from the dugs of mares,Milking their teats into her tender lips.Soon as the infant first with doubtful feetCould press the ground, her little hands he filledWith pointed darts, and on her shoulder hungA bow and quiver. No soft caul of goldHer tresses strains; nor flows her waving gown:Instead of these a tiger's horrid hideHangs from her head, and over her back descends.Darts with her tender hand even then she threw;And, whirling round her head a sounding sling,Struck a Strymonian crane, or snow-white swan.”