Old Spookses' Pass, Malcolm's Katie, and other poems Part 4

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 G.o.d.

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 G.o.ds: From the long, sleek, yellow sh.o.r.e, Oliv'd hill or dusky sod,

XXI.

Gaz'd the anger'd G.o.ds, 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 "Kins.h.i.+p to the drunken G.o.d!

x.x.x.

"Drink, until the leaden blood "Stirs and beats about thy brain: "Till the hot Caecuban flood "Drown the iron of thy chain.

x.x.xI.

"Drink, till even madness flies "At the nimble wine's pursuit; "Till the G.o.d within thee lies "Trampled by the earth-born brute.

x.x.xII.

"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.

x.x.xIII.

"G.o.ds! 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!

x.x.xIV.

"Thou, my Hermos, turn thy eyes, "(G.o.d-touch'd still their frank, bold blue) "On the Helot--mark the rise "Of the Bacchic riot through

x.x.xV.

"Knotted vein, and surging breast: "Mark the wild, insensate, mirth: "G.o.d-ward boast--the driv'ling jest, "Till he grovel to the earth.

x.x.xVI.