Pyrrha (From Horace, Ode I. 5.) Poem by Martin Farquhar Tupper

What slender youth on bed of roses,
Pyrrha, by thy side reposes,
With odours perfum'd sweet
In shady grot reclin'd?
And when her waving auburn tresses
With neat simplicity she dresses,
Oh, whom is it to greet?
For whom art thou so kind?
Alas, how oft will that fond boy
Who now so blindly can enjoy
Thy venal beauties, weep
Thy broken vows of love,
When all thy perjury he finds;
And wondering at the roughening winds,
That brush the darkling deep,
Will woman's folly prove;
Hapless,- he knoweth not thy wiles,
But hopes to bask in all thy smiles,
And have thee his alone;-
Still, those are more unblest,
Who all in vain thy charms approve;
For me half-drown'd in Pyrrha's love
Before Old Neptune's throne
I hang my votive vest.