Old Spookses Pass | Page 7

on the world,?From the mire of Helot clods.
LXXXVI.
Still the furious Helot stood,?Staring thro' the shafted space;?Dry-lipp'd for the Spartan blood,?He of scourg'd Achea's race.
LXXXVII.
Sprang the Helot--roar'd the vine,?Rent from grey, long-wedded stones--?From pale shaft and dusky pine,?Beat the fury of his groans.
LXXXVIII.
Thunders inarticulate:?Wordless curses, deep and wild;?Reach'd the long pois'd sword of Fate,?To the Spartan thro' his child.
LXXXIX.
On his knotted hands, upflung?O'er his low'r'd front--all white,?Fair young Hermos quiv'ring hung;?As the discus flashes bright
XC.
In the player's hand--the boy,?Naked--blossom-pallid lay;?Rous'd to lust of bloody joy,?Throbb'd the slave's embruted clay.
XCI.
Loud he laugh'd--the father sprang?From the Spartan's iron mail!?Late--the bubbling death-cry rang?On the hot pulse of the gale!
XCII.
As the shining discus flies,?From the thrower's strong hand whirl'd;?Hermos cleft the air--his cries?Lance-like to the Spartan hurl'd.
XCIII.
As the discus smites the ground,?Smote his golden head the stone;?Of a tall shaft--burst a sound?And but one--his dying groan!
XCIV.
Lo! the tyrant's iron might!?Lo! the Helot's yokes and chains!?Slave-slain in the throbbing light?Lay the sole child of his veins.
XCV.
Laugh'd the Helot loud and full,?Gazing at his tyrant's face;?Low'r'd his front like captive bull,?Bellowing from the fields of Thrace.
XCVI.
Rose the pale shaft redly flush'd,?Red with Bacchic light and blood;?On its stone the Helot rush'd--?Stone the tyrant Spartan stood.
XCVII.
Lo! the magic of the wine?From far marsh of Amyclae!?Bier'd upon the ruddy vine,?Spartan dust and Helot lay!
XCVIII.
Spouse of Bacchus reel'd the day,?Red track'd on the throbbing sods;?Dead--but free--the Helot lay,?Just and changeless stand the Gods!
MALCOLM'S KATIE: A LOVE STORY
PART I.
Max plac'd a ring on little Katie's hand,?A silver ring that he had beaten out?From that same sacred coin--first well-priz'd wage?For boyish labour, kept thro' many years.?"See, Kate," he said, "I had no skill to shape?Two hearts fast bound together, so I grav'd?Just K. and M., for Katie and for Max."?"But, look; you've run the lines in such a way,?That M. is part of K., and K. of M.,"?Said Katie, smiling. "Did you mean it thus??I like it better than the double hearts."?"Well, well," he said, "but womankind is wise!?Yet tell me, dear, will such a prophecy?Not hurt you sometimes, when I am away??Will you not seek, keen ey'd, for some small break?In those deep lines, to part the K. and M.?For you? Nay, Kate, look down amid the globes?Of those large lilies that our light canoe?Divides, and see within the polish'd pool?That small, rose face of yours,--so dear, so fair,--?A seed of love to cleave into a rock,?And bourgeon thence until the granite splits?Before its subtle strength. I being gone--?Poor soldier of the axe--to bloodless fields,?(Inglorious battles, whether lost or won).?That sixteen summer'd heart of yours may say:?"'I but was budding, and I did not know?My core was crimson and my perfume sweet;?I did not know how choice a thing I am;?I had not seen the sun, and blind I sway'd?To a strong wind, and thought because I sway'd,?'Twas to the wooer of the perfect rose--?That strong, wild wind has swept beyond my ken--?The breeze I love sighs thro' my ruddy leaves."?"O, words!" said Katie, blushing, "only words!?You build them up that I may push them down;?If hearts are flow'rs, I know that flow'rs can root--?"Bud, blossom, die--all in the same lov'd soil;?They do so in my garden. I have made?Your heart my garden. If I am a bud?And only feel unfoldment--feebly stir?Within my leaves: wait patiently; some June,?I'll blush a full-blown rose, and queen it, dear,?In your lov'd garden. Tho' I be a bud,?My roots strike deep, and torn from that dear soil?Would shriek like mandrakes--those witch things I read?Of in your quaint old books. Are you content?"?"Yes--crescent-wise--but not to round, full moon.?Look at yon hill that rounds so gently up?From the wide lake; a lover king it looks,?In cloth of gold, gone from his bride and queen;?And yet delayed, because her silver locks?Catch in his gilded fringes; his shoulders sweep?Into blue distance, and his gracious crest,?Not held too high, is plum'd with maple groves;--?One of your father's farms. A mighty man,?Self-hewn from rock, remaining rock through all."?"He loves me, Max," said Katie: "Yes, I know--?A rock is cup to many a crystal spring.?Well, he is rich; those misty, peak-roof'd barns--?Leviathans rising from red seas of grain--?Are full of ingots, shaped like grains of wheat.?His flocks have golden fleeces, and his herds?Have monarchs worshipful, as was the calf?Aaron call'd from the furnace; and his ploughs,?Like Genii chained, snort o'er his mighty fields.?He has a voice in Council and in Church--"?"He work'd for all," said Katie, somewhat pain'd.?"Aye, so, dear love, he did; I heard him tell?How the first field upon his farm was ploughed.?He and his brother Reuben, stalwart lads,?Yok'd themselves, side by side, to the new plough;?Their weaker father, in the grey of life?(But rather the wan age of poverty?Than many winters), in large, gnarl'd hands?The plunging handles held; with mighty strains?They drew the ripping beak through knotted sod,?Thro' tortuous