Odes From Horace. - To Barine. Book The Second, Ode The Eighth.

BARINE, to thy always broken vows         Were slightest punishment ordain'd;          Hadst thou less charming been      By one grey hair upon thy polish'd brows;         If but a single tooth were stain'd,          A nail discolour'd seen,      Then might I nurse the hope that, faithful grown,      The FUTURE might, at length, the guilty PAST atone.      But ah! no sooner on that perjur'd head,         With pomp, the votive wreaths are bound,          In mockery of truth,      Than lovelier grace thy faithless beauties shed;         Thou com'st, with new-born conquest crown'd,          The care of all our Youth,      Their public care; - and murmur'd praises rise      Where'er the beams are shot of those resistless eyes.      Thy Mother's buried dust; - the midnight train,         Of silent stars, - the rolling spheres,          Each God, that list'ning bows,      With thee it prospers, false-One! to profane.         The Nymphs attend; - gay Venus hears,          And all deride thy vows;      And Cupid whets afresh his burning darts      On the stone, moist with blood, that dropt from wounded hearts.      For thee our rising Youth to Manhood grow,         Ordain'd thy powerful chains to wear;          Nor do thy former Slaves      From the gay roof of their false Mistress go,         Tho' sworn no more to linger there;          Triumphant BEAUTY braves      The wise resolve; - and, ere they reach the door,      Fixes the faltering step to thy magnetic floor.      Thee the sage Matron fears, intent to warn         Her Striplings; - thee the Miser dreads,          And, of thy power aware,      Brides from the Fane with anxious sighs return,         Lest the bright nets thy beauty spreads,          Their plighted Lords ensnare,      Ere fades the marriage torch; nay even now,      While undispers'd the breath, that form'd the nuptial vow!