Old Spookses Pass | Page 5

lit by the
lightnin's eye:
An' the mustang cower'd es something swept
Clus to
his wet flank in passin' by.
"Good night tew ye, Pard!" "Good night,"
sez I,
Strainin' my sight on the empty air;
The har riz rustlin' up on
my head,
Now that I hed time tew scare.
LII.
The mustang flinch'd till his saddle girth
Scrap'd on the dust of the
tremblin' ground--
There cum a laugh--the crack of a whip,
A whine
like the cry of a well pleas'd hound,
The noise of a hoss thet rear'd an'

sprang
At the touch of a spur--then all was still;
But the sound of
the thunder dyin' down
On the stony breast of the highest hill!
LIII.
The herd went back to its rest an' feed,
Es quiet a crowd es ever wore
hide;
An' them boys in camp never heerd a lisp
Of the thunder an'
crash of that run an' ride.
An' I'll never forget, while a wild cat claws,

Or a cow loves a nibble of sweet blue grass,
The cur'us pardner
that rode with me
In the night stampede in "Old Spookses Pass!"
THE HELOT.
I.
Low the sun beat on the land,
Red on vine and plain and wood;

With the wine-cup in his hand,
Vast the Helot herdsman stood.
II.
Quench'd the fierce Achean gaze,
Dorian foemen paus'd before,

Where cold Sparta snatch'd her bays
At Achaea's stubborn door.
III.
Still with thews of iron bound,
Vastly the Achean rose,
Godward
from the brazen ground,
High before his Spartan foes.
IV.
Still the strength his fathers knew
(Dauntless when the foe they fac'd)

Vein and muscle bounded through,
Tense his Helot sinews brac'd.
V.
Still the constant womb of Earth,
Blindly moulded all her part;
As,
when to a lordly birth,
Achean freemen left her heart.

VI.
Still, insensate mother, bore
Goodly sons for Helot graves;
Iron
necks that meekly wore
Sparta's yoke as Sparta's slaves.
VII.
Still, O God mock'd mother! she
Smil'd upon her sons of clay:

Nurs'd them on her breast and knee,
Shameless in the shameful day.
VIII.
Knew not old Achea's fires
Burnt no more in souls or veins--

Godlike hosts of high desires
Died to clank of Spartan chains.
IX.
Low the sun beat on the land,
Purple slope and olive wood;
With
the wine cup in his hand,
Vast the Helot herdsman stood.
X.
As long, gnarl'd roots enclasp
Some red boulder, fierce entwine
His
strong fingers, in their grasp
Bowl of bright Caecuban wine.
XI.
From far Marsh of Amyclae,
Sentried by lank poplars tall--
Thro'
the red slant of the day,
Shrill pipes did lament and call.
XII.
Pierc'd the swaying air sharp pines,
Thyrsi-like, the gilded ground

Clasp'd black shadows of brown vines,
Swallows beat their mystic
round.
XIII.

Day was at her high unrest;
Fever'd with the wine of light,
Loosing
all her golden vest,
Reel'd she towards the coming night.
XIV.
Fierce and full her pulses beat;
Bacchic throbs the dry earth shook;

Stirr'd the hot air wild and sweet;
Madden'd ev'ry vine-dark brook.
XV.
Had a red grape never burst,
All its heart of fire out;
To the red vat
all a thirst,
To the treader's song and shout:
XVI.
Had the red grape died a grape;
Nor, sleek daughter of the vine,

Found her unknown soul take shape
In the wild flow of the wine:
XVII.
Still had reel'd the yellow haze:
Still had puls'd the sun pierc'd sod

Still had throbb'd the vine clad days:
To the pulses of their God.
XVIII.
Fierce the dry lips of the earth
Quaff'd the subtle Bacchic soul:
Felt
its rage and felt its mirth,
Wreath'd as for the banquet bowl.
XIX.
Sapphire-breasted Bacchic priest
Stood the sky above the lands;

Sun and Moon at East and West,
Brazen cymbals in his hands.
XX.
Temples, altars, smote no more,
Sharply white as brows of Gods:

From the long, sleek, yellow shore,
Oliv'd hill or dusky sod,

XXI.
Gaz'd the anger'd Gods, while he,
Bacchus, made their temples his;

Flushed their marble silently
With the red light of his kiss.
XXII.
Red the arches of his feet
Spann'd grape-gleaming vales; the earth

Reel'd from grove to marble street,
Mad with echoes of his mirth.
XXIII.
Nostrils widen'd to the air,
As above the wine brimm'd bowl:
Men
and women everywhere
Breath'd the fierce, sweet Bacchic soul.
XXIV.
Flow'd the vat and roar'd the beam,
Laugh'd the must; while far and
shrill,
Sweet as notes in Pan-born dream,
Loud pipes sang by vale
and hill.
XXV.
Earth was full of mad unrest,
While red Bacchus held his state;
And
her brown vine-girdl'd breast
Shook to his wild joy and hate.
XXVI.
Strife crouch'd red ey'd in the vine
In its tendrils Eros strayed;

Anger rode upon the wine;
Laughter on the cup-lip play'd.
XXVII.
Day was at her chief unrest--
Red the light on plain and wood

Slavish ey'd and still of breast,
Vast the Helot herdsman stood:
XXVIII.

Wide his hairy nostrils blew,
Maddning incense breathing up;
Oak
to iron sinews grew,
Round the rich Caecuban cup.
XXIX.
"Drink, dull slave!" the Spartan said,
"Drink, until the Helot clod

"Feel within him subtly bred
"Kinship to the drunken God!
XXX.
"Drink, until the leaden blood
"Stirs and beats about thy brain:
"Till
the hot Caecuban flood
"Drown the iron of thy chain.
XXXI.
"Drink, till even madness flies
"At the nimble wine's pursuit;
"Till
the God within thee