Horace, creator; Conington, John, 1825-1869, editor

  • Had chastisement for perjured truth,
  • Barine, mark'd you with a curse—
  • Did one wry nail, or one black tooth,
  • But make you worse—
  • I'd trust you; but, when plighted lies
  • Have pledged you deepest, lovelier far
  • You sparkle forth, of all young eyes
  • The ruling star.
  • 'Tis gain to mock your mother's bones,
  • And night's still signs, and all the sky,
  • And gods, that on their glorious thrones
  • Chill Death defy.
  • Ay, Venus smiles; the pure nymphs smile,
  • And Cupid, tyrant-lord of hearts,
  • Sharpening on bloody stone the while
  • His fiery darts.
  • New captives fill the nets you weave;
  • New slaves are bred; and those before,
  • Though oft they threaten, never leave
  • Your godless door.