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! [1]TO TITUS VALGIUS. BOOK THE SECOND, ODE THE NINTH. Not ceaseless falls the heavy shower That drenches deep the furrow'd lea; Nor do continual tempests pour On the vex'd [2]Caspian's billowy sea; Nor yet the ice, in silent horror, stands Thro' _all_ the passing months on pale [3]Armenia's Lands. Fierce storms do not for _ever_ bend The Mountain's vast and labouring oak, Nor from the ash its foliage rend, With ruthless whirl, and widowing stroke; But, Valgius, thou, with grief's eternal lays Mournest thy vanish'd joys in MYSTES' shorten'd days. When [4]Vesper trembles in the west, Or flies before the orient sun, Rise the lone sorrows of thy breast.-- Not thus did aged Nestor shun Consoling strains, nor always sought the tomb, Where sunk his [5]filial Hopes, in life and glory's bloom. Not thus, the lovely Troilus slain, His Parents wept the Princely Boy; Nor thus his Sisters mourn'd, in vain, The blasted Flower of sinking Troy; Cease, then, thy fond complaints!--Augustus' fame, The new Cesarian wreaths, let thy lov'd voice proclaim!