Old Spookses' Pass, Malcolm's Katie, and other poems Part 6

LV.

"Helot clay! G.o.ds! 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 G.o.ds!

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.

"G.o.ds! 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, G.o.d-born spark, Trodden by the rush of swine!

LXII.

"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!"

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-b.a.l.l.s 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 G.o.d-born fire, Pulsing at the soul's deep root?

Tyrants! 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 G.o.ds!

Nor their calm might yielded ye!