Old Spookses' Pass, Malcolm's Katie, and other poems Part 3

LI.

The herd slow'd up;--an' stood in a ma.s.s Of blackness, lit by the lightnin's eye: An' the mustang cower'd es _something_ swept Clus to his wet flank in pa.s.sin' 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 Sc.r.a.p'd on the dust of the tremblin' ground-- There c.u.m 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 gra.s.s, The cur'us pardner that rode with me In the night stampede in "Old Spookses Pa.s.s!"

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 s.n.a.t.c.h'd her bays At Achaea's stubborn door.

III.

Still with thews of iron bound, Vastly the Achean rose, G.o.dward 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 G.o.d 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-- G.o.dlike 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.