Old Spookses Pass | Page 6

lies
"Trampled by the earth-born brute.
XXXII.
"Helot drink--nor spare the wine;
"Drain the deep, the madd'ning
bowl,
"Flesh and sinews, slave, are mine,
"Now I claim thy Helot
soul.
XXXIII.
"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!
XXXIV.
"Thou, my Hermos, turn thy eyes,
"(God-touch'd still their frank, bold
blue)
"On the Helot--mark the rise
"Of the Bacchic riot through
XXXV.
"Knotted vein, and surging breast:
"Mark the wild, insensate, mirth:


"God-ward boast--the driv'ling jest,
"Till he grovel to the earth.
XXXVI.
"Drink, dull slave," the Spartan cried:
Meek the Helot touch'd the
brim;
Scented all the purple tide:
Drew the Bacchic soul to him.
XXXVII.
Cold the thin lipp'd Spartan smiled:
Couch'd beneath the weighted
vine,
Large-ey'd, gaz'd the Spartan child,
On the Helot and the
wine.
XXXVIII.
Rose pale Doric shafts behind,
Stern and strong, and thro' and thro',

Weaving with the grape-breath'd wind,
Restless swallows call'd and
flew.
XXXIX.
Dropp'd the rose-flush'd doves and hung,
On the fountains
murmuring brims;
To the bronz'd vine Hermos clung--
Silver-like
his naked limbs
XL.
Flash'd and flush'd: rich copper'd leaves,
Whiten'd by his ruddy hair;

Pallid as the marble eaves,
Aw'd he met the Helot's stare.
XLI.
Clang'd the brazen goblet down;
Marble-bred loud echoes stirr'd:

With fix'd fingers, knotted, brown,
Dumb, the Helot grasp'd his
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!