Old Spookses' Pass, Malcolm's Katie, and other poems - BestLightNovel.com
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"Drink, dull slave," the Spartan cried: Meek the Helot touch'd the brim; Scented all the purple tide: Drew the Bacchic soul to him.
x.x.xVII.
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.
x.x.xVIII.
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.
x.x.xIX.
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 cl.u.s.ter'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 pa.s.s'd before his sight, Dark-robed and articulate.
XLVII.
No black omens on his eyes, Sinistre--G.o.d-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 G.o.d."
XLIX.
"Mark, my Hermos--turn to steel The soft tendons of thy soul!
Watch the G.o.d 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 l.u.s.t of the wine; Watch the G.o.d 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!
