Classic Poem

See you not, Pyrrhus, at what risk you try
To rob a lioness of her whelps? Ere long
Faint-hearted plunderer you'll turn and fly
From odds too strong,

When she the youths' opposing band stalks through
To claim Nearchus, the renowned, and call
To combat whether victor's prize to you
Or her shall fall.

Meantime, while you swift arrows draw, and she
Whets her grim teeth, the umpire of the fray
Has 'neath his bare foot set for all to see
The palm, they say,

And lets the soft breeze cool his shoulders white,
That locks of scented hair o'erspread adorn,
Like Nireus or the boy from watery height