Old Spookses Pass | Page 7

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 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