Old Spookses Pass | Page 6

beard.
XLII.
Heard the far pipes mad and sweet.?All the ruddy hazes thrill:?Heard the loud beam crash and beat,?In the red vat on the hill.
XLIII.
Wide his nostrils as a stag's?Drew the hot wind's fiery bliss;?Red his lips as river flags,?From the strong, Caecuban kiss.
XLIV.
On his swarthy temples grew,?Purple veins like cluster'd grapes;?Past his rolling pupils blew,?Wine-born, fierce, lascivious shapes.
XLV.
Cold the haughty Spartan smiled--?His the power to knit that day,?Bacchic fires, insensate, wild,?To the grand Achean clay.
XLVI.
His the might--hence his the right!?Who should bid him pause? nor Fate?Warning pass'd before his sight,?Dark-robed and articulate.
XLVII.
No black omens on his eyes,?Sinistre--God-sent, darkly broke;?Nor from ruddy earth nor skies,?Portends to him mutely spoke.
XLVIII.
"Lo," he said, "he maddens now!?"Flames divine do scathe the clod;?"Round his reeling Helot brow?"Stings the garland of the God."
XLIX.
"Mark, my Hermos--turn to steel?The soft tendons of thy soul!?Watch the God beneath the heel?Of the strong brute swooning roll!
L.
"Shame, my Hermos! honey-dew?Breeds not on the Spartan spear;?Steel thy mother-eyes of blue,?Blush to death that weakling tear.
LI.
"Nay, behold! breed Spartan scorn?Of the red lust of the wine;?Watch the God himself down-borne?By the brutish rush of swine!
LII.
"Lo, the magic of the drink!?At the nimble wine's pursuit,?See the man-half'd satyr sink?All the human in the brute!
LIII.
"Lo, the magic of the cup!?Watch the frothing Helot rave!?As great buildings labour up?From the corpse of slaughter'd slave,
LIV.
"Build the Spartan virtue high?From the Helot's wine-dead soul;?Scorn the wild, hot flames that fly?From the purple-hearted bowl!
LV.
"Helot clay! Gods! what its worth,?Balanc'd with proud Sparta's rock??Ours--its force to till the earth;?Ours--its soul to gyve and mock!
LVI.
"Ours, its sullen might. Ye Gods!?Vastly build the Achean clay;?Iron-breast our slavish clods--?Ours their Helot souls to slay!
LVII.
"Knit great thews--smite sinews vast?Into steel--build Helot bones?Iron-marrowed:--such will last?Ground by ruthless Sparta's stones.
LVIII.
"Crown the strong brute satyr wise!?Narrow-wall his Helot brain;?Dash the soul from breast and eyes,?Lash him toward the earth again.
LIX.
"Make a giant for our need,?Weak to feel and strong to toil;?Dully-wise to dig or bleed?On proud Sparta's alien soil!
LX.
"Gods! recall thy spark at birth,?Lit his soul with high desire;?Blend him, grind him with the earth,?Tread out old Achea's fire!
LXI.
"Lo, my Hermos! laugh and mark,?See the swift mock of the wine;?Faints the primal, God-born spark,?Trodden by the rush of swine!
LXII.
"Gods! ye love our Sparta--ye?Gave with vine that leaps and runs?O'er her slopes, these slaves to be?Mocks and warnings to her sons!"
LXIII.
Cold the haughty Spartan smil'd.?Madd'ning from the purple hills?Sang the far pipes, sweet and wild.?Red as sun-pierc'd daffodils
LXIV.
Neck-curv'd, serpent, silent, scaled?With lock'd rainbows, stole the sea;?On the sleek, long beaches; wail'd?Doves from column and from tree.
LXV.
Reel'd the mote swarm'd haze, and thick?Beat the hot pulse of the air;?In the Helot, fierce and quick,?All his soul sprang from its lair.
LXVI.
As the drowzing tiger, deep?In the dim cell, hears the shout?From the arena--from his sleep?Launches to its thunders out--
LXVII.
So to fierce calls of the wine?(Strong the red Caecuban bowl!)?From its slumber, deep, supine,?Panted up the Helot soul.
LXVIII.
At his blood-flush'd eye-balls rear'd,?(Mad and sweet came pipes and songs),?Rous'd at last the wild soul glar'd,?Spear-thrust with a million wrongs.
LXIX.
Past--the primal, senseless bliss;?Past--red laughter of the grapes;?Past--the wine's first honey'd kiss;?Past--the wine-born, wanton shapes!
LXX.
Still the Helot stands--his feet?Set like oak roots: in his gaze?Black clouds roll and lightnings meet--?Flames from old Achean days.
LXXI.
Who may quench the God-born fire,?Pulsing at the soul's deep root??Tyrants! grind it in the mire,?Lo, it vivifies the brute!
LXXII.
Stings the chain-embruted clay,?Senseless to his yoke-bound shame;?Goads him on to rend and slay,?Knowing not the spurring flame.
LXXIII.
Tyrants, changeless stand the Gods!?Nor their calm might yielded ye!?Not beneath thy chains and rods?Dies man's God-gift, Liberty!
LXXIV.
Bruteward lash thy Helots--hold?Brain and soul and clay in gyves;?Coin their blood and sweat in gold,?Build thy cities on their lives.
LXXV.
Comes a day the spark divine?Answers to the Gods who gave;?Fierce the hot flames pant and shine?In the bruis'd breast of the slave!
LXXVI.
Changeless stand the Gods!--nor he?Knows he answers their behest;?Feels the might of their decree?In the blind rage of his breast.
LXXVII.
Tyrants! tremble when ye tread?Down the servile Helot clods;?Under despot heel is bred?The white anger of the Gods!
LXXVIII.
Thro' the shackle-canker'd dust,?Thro' the gyv'd soul, foul and dark?Force they, changeless Gods and just!?Up the bright eternal spark.
LXXIX.
Till, like lightnings vast and fierce,?On the land its terror smites;?Till its flames the tyrants pierce,?Till the dust the despot bites!
LXXX.
Day was at its chief unrest,?Stone from stone the Helot rose;?Fix'd his eyes--his naked breast?Iron-wall'd his inner throes.
LXXXI.
Rose-white in the dusky leaves,?Shone the frank-ey'd Spartan child;?Low the pale doves on the eaves,?Made their soft moan, sweet and wild.
LXXXII.
Wand'ring winds, fire-throated, stole,?Sybils whisp'ring from their books;?With the rush of wine from bowl,?Leap'd the tendril-darken'd brooks.
LXXXIII.
As the leathern cestus binds?Tense the boxer's knotted hands;?So the strong wine round him winds,?Binds his thews to iron bands.
LXXXIV.
Changeless are the Gods--and bred?All their wrath divine in him!?Bull-like fell his furious head,?Swell'd vast cords on breast and limb.
LXXXV.
As loud-flaming stones are hurl'd?From foul craters--thus the gods?Cast their just wrath