Classic Poem

A youth there was, Elpenor was he nam'd,
Nor much for sense, nor much for courage fam'd;
The youngest of our band, a vulgar soul
Born but to banquet, and to drain the bowl.
He, hot and careless, on a turret's height
With sleep repair'd the long debauch of night:
The sudden tumult stirr'd him where he lay,
And down he hasten'd, but forgot the way;
Full endlong from the roof the sleeper fell,
And snapt the spinal joint, and wak'd in hell.