Old Spookses' Pass, Malcolm's Katie, and other poems Part 7

Not beneath thy chains and rods Dies man's G.o.d-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 G.o.ds who gave; Fierce the hot flames pant and shine In the bruis'd breast of the slave!

LXXVI.

Changeless stand the G.o.ds!--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 G.o.ds!

LXXVIII.

Thro' the shackle-canker'd dust, Thro' the gyv'd soul, foul and dark Force they, changeless G.o.ds 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!

Lx.x.x.

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.

Lx.x.xI.

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.

Lx.x.xII.

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.

Lx.x.xIII.

As the leathern cestus binds Tense the boxer's knotted hands; So the strong wine round him winds, Binds his thews to iron bands.

Lx.x.xIV.

Changeless are the G.o.ds--and bred All their wrath divine in him!

Bull-like fell his furious head, Swell'd vast cords on breast and limb.

Lx.x.xV.

As loud-flaming stones are hurl'd From foul craters--thus the G.o.ds Cast their just wrath on the world, From the mire of Helot clods.

Lx.x.xVI.

Still the furious Helot stood, Staring thro' the shafted s.p.a.ce; Dry-lipp'd for the Spartan blood, He of scourg'd Achea's race.

Lx.x.xVII.

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.

Lx.x.xVIII.

Thunders inarticulate: Wordless curses, deep and wild; Reach'd the long pois'd sword of Fate, To the Spartan thro' his child.

Lx.x.xIX.

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 l.u.s.t of b.l.o.o.d.y 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.