poem – beside the sea

ONE time he dreamed beside a sea
That laid a mane of mimic stars
In fondling quiet on the knee
Of one tall, pearlèd cliff; the bars
Of golden beaches upward swept;
Pine-scented shadows seaward crept.

The full moon swung her ripened sphere
As from a vine; and clouds, as small
As vine leaves in the opening year,
Kissed the large circle of her ball.
The stars gleamed thro’ them as one sees
Thor’ vine leaves drift the golden bees.

He dreamed beside this purple sea;
Low sang its trancéd voice, and he-
He knew not if the wordless strain
Made prophecy of joy or pain;
He only knew far stretched that sea,
He knew its name-Eternity.

A shallop with a rainbow sail
On the bright pulses of the tide
Throbbed airily; a fluting gale
Kissed the rich gilding of its side;
By chain of rose and myrtle fast
A light sail touched the slender mast.

‘A flower-bright rainbow thing,’ he said
To one beside him, ‘far too frail
To brave dark storms that lurk ahead,
To dare sharp talons of the gale.
Beloved, thou wouldst not forth with me
In such a bark on such a sea?’

‘First tell me of its name.’ She bent
Her eyes divine and innocent
On his. He raised his hand above
Its prow and answering swore, ”Tis Love!’
‘Now tell,’ she asked, ‘how is it build-
Of gold, or worthless timber gilt?’

‘Of gold,’ he said. ‘Whence named?’ asked she,
The roses of her lips apart;
She paused-a lily by the sea.
Came his swift answer, ‘From my heart!’
She laid her light palm in his hand:
‘Let loose the shallop from the strand!’

poem – the dark stag

1 A startled stag, the blue-grey Night,
2 Leaps down beyond black pines.
3 Behind–a length of yellow light–
4 The hunter’s arrow shines:
5 His moccasins are stained with red,
6 He bends upon his knee,
7 From covering peaks his shafts are sped,
8 The blue mists plume his mighty head,–
9 Well may the swift Night flee!

10 The pale, pale Moon, a snow-white doe,
11 Bounds by his dappled flank:
12 They beat the stars down as they go,
13 Like wood-bells growing rank.
14 The winds lift dewlaps from the ground,
15 Leap from the quaking reeds;
16 Their hoarse bays shake the forests round,
17 With keen cries on the track they bound,–
18 Swift, swift the dark stag speeds!

19 Away! his white doe, far behind,
20 Lies wounded on the plain;
21 Yells at his flank the nimblest wind,
22 His large tears fall in rain;
23 Like lily-pads, small clouds grow white
24 About his darkling way;
25 From his bald nest upon the height
26 The red-eyed eagle sees his flight;
27 He falters, turns, the antlered Night,–
28 The dark stag stands at bay!

29 His feet are in the waves of space;
30 His antlers broad and dun
31 He lowers; he turns his velvet face
32 To front the hunter, Sun;
33 He stamps the lilied clouds, and high
34 His branches fill the west.
35 The lean stork sails across the sky,
36 The shy loon shrieks to see him die,
37 The winds leap at his breast.

38 Roar the rent lakes as thro’ the wave
39 Their silver warriors plunge,
40 As vaults from core of crystal cave
41 The strong, fierce muskallunge;
42 Red torches of the sumach glare,
43 Fall’s council-fires are lit;
44 The bittern, squaw-like, scolds the air;
45 The wild duck splashes loudly where
46 The rustling rice-spears knit.

47 Shaft after shaft the red Sun speeds:
48 Rent the stag’s dappled side,
49 His breast, fanged by the shrill winds, bleeds,
50 He staggers on the tide;
51 He feels the hungry waves of space
52 Rush at him high and blue;
53 Their white spray smites his dusky face,
54 Swifter the Sun’s fierce arrows race
55 And pierce his stout heart thro’.

56 His antlers fall; once more he spurns
57 The hoarse hounds of the day;
58 His blood upon the crisp blue burns,
59 Reddens the mounting spray;
60 His branches smite the wave–with cries
61 The loud winds pause and flag–
62 He sinks in space–red glow the skies,
63 The brown earth crimsons as he dies,
64 The strong and dusky stag.

poem – his mother

In the first dawn she lifted from her bed
The holy silver of her noble head,
And listened, listened, listened for his tread.
‘Too soon, too soon !’ she murmured, ‘Yet I’ll keep
My vigil longer­ thou, O tender Sleep,
Art but the joy of those who wake and weep!

‘Joy’s self hath keen, wide eyes. O flesh of mine,
And mine own blood and bone, the very wine
Of my aged heart, I see thy dear eyes shine!

‘I hear thy tread; thy light, loved footsteps run
Along the way, eager for that ‘Well done !’
We’ll weep and kiss to thee, my soldier son!

‘Blest mother I­ he lives! Yet had he died
Blest were I still, ­ I sent him on the tide
Of my full heart to save his nation’s pride!’

‘O God, if that I tremble so to-day,
Bowed with such blessings that I cannot pray
By speech­ a mother prays, dear Lord, alway

‘In some far fibre of her trembling mind!
I’ll up­ I thought I heard a bugle bind
Its silver with the silver of the wind. ‘

poem – the rose

The Rose was given to man for this:
He, sudden seeing it in later years,
Should swift remember Love’s first lingering kiss
And Grief’s last lingering tears;
Or, being blind, should feel its yearning soul
Knit all its piercing perfume round his own,
Till he should see on memory’s ample scroll
All roses he had known;

Or, being hard, perchance his finger-tips
Careless might touch the satin of its cup,
And he should feel a dead babe’s budding lips
To his lips lifted up;

Or, being deaf and smitten with its star,
Should, on a sudden, almost hear a lark
Rush singing up­the nightingale afar
Sing through the dew-bright dark;

Or, sorrow-lost in paths that round and round
Circle old graves, its keen and vital breath
Should call to him within the yew’s bleak bound
Of Life, and not of Death.

poem – a perfect strain

O BID the minstrel tune his harp,
And bid the minstrel sing;
And let it be a perfect strain
That round the hall shall ring:
A strain to throb in lady’s heart,
To brim the warrior’s soul,
As dew fills up the summer rose
And wine the lordly bowl!

O let the minstrel’s voice ring clear,
His touch sweep gay and light;
Nor let his glittering tresses know
One streak of wintry white.
And let the light of ruddy June
Shine in his joyous eyes,
If he would wake the only strain
That never fully dies!

O what the strain that woos the knight
To turn from steed and lance,
The page to turn from hound and hawk,
The maid from lute and dance;
The potent strain, that nigh would draw
The hermit from his cave,
The dryad from the leafy oak,
The mermaid from the wave;
That almost might still charm the hawk
To drop the trembling dove?
O ruddy minstrel, tune thy harp,
And sing of Youthful Love!

poem – a hungry day

I MIND him well, he was a quare ould chap,
Come like meself from swate ould Erin’s sod;
He hired me wanst to help his harvest in-
The crops was fine that summer, praised be God!

He found us, Rosie, Mickie, an’ meself,
Just landed in the emigration shed;
Meself was tyin’ on their bits of clothes;
Their mother-rest her tender sowl!-was dead.

It’s not meself can say of what she died:
But ’twas the year the praties felt the rain,
An’ rotted in the soil; an’ just to dhraw
The breath of life was one long hungry pain.

If we wor haythens in a furrin land,
Not in a country grand in Christian pride,
Faith, then a man might have the face to say
‘Twas of stharvation me poor Sheila died.

But whin the parish docthor come at last,
Whin death was like a sun-burst in her eyes-
They looked straight into Heaven-an’ her ears
Wor deaf to the poor children’s hungry cries,

He touched the bones stretched on the mouldy sthraw:
‘She’s gone!’ he says, and drew a solemn frown;
‘I fear, my man, she’s dead.’ ‘Of what?’ says I.
He coughed, and says, ‘She’s let her system down!’

‘An’ that’s God’s truth!’ says I, an’ felt about
To touch her dawney hand, for all looked dark;
An’ in me hunger-bleached, shmall-beatin’ heart,
I felt the kindlin’ of a burnin’spark.

‘O by me sowl, that is the holy truth!
There’s Rosie’s cheek has kept a dimple still,
An’ Mickie’s eyes are bright-the craythur there
Died that the weeny ones might eat their fill.’

An’ whin they spread the daisies thick an’ white
Above her head that wanst lay on me breast,
I had no tears, but took the childher’s hands,
An’ says, ‘We’ll lave the mother to her rest.’

An’ och! the sod was green that summer’s day,
An’ rainbows crossed the low hills, blue an’ fair;
But black an’ foul the blighted furrows stretched,
An’ sent their cruel poison through the air.

An’ all was quiet-on the sunny sides
Of hedge an’ ditch the stharvin’ craythurs lay,
An’ thim as lacked the rint from empty walls
Of little cabins wapin’ turned away.

God’s curse lay heavy on the poor ould sod,
An’ whin upon her increase His right hand
Fell with’ringly, there samed no bit of blue
For Hope to shine through on the sthricken land.

No facthory chimblys shmoked agin the sky.
No mines yawned on the hills so full an’ rich;
A man whose praties failed had nought to do
But fold his hands an’ die down in a ditch.

A flame rose up widin me feeble heart,
Whin, passin’ through me cabin’s hingeless dure,
I saw the mark of Sheila’s coffin in
The grey dust on the empty earthen flure.

I lifted Rosie’s face betwixt me hands;
Says I, ‘Me girleen, you an’ Mick an’ me
Must lave the green ould sod an’ look for food
In thim strange countries far beyant the sea.’

An’ so it chanced, whin landed on the sthreet,
Ould Dolan, rowlin’ a quare ould shay
Came there to hire a man to save his wheat,
An’ hired meself and Mickie by the day.

‘An’ bring the girleen, Pat,’ he says, an’ looked
At Rosie, lanin’ up agin me knee;
‘The wife will be right plaised to see the child,
The weeney shamrock from beyant the sea.

‘We’ve got a tidy place, the saints be praised!
As nice a farm as ever brogan trod.
A hundered acres-us as never owned
Land big enough to make a lark a sod.’

‘Bedad,’ says I, ‘I heerd them over there
Tell how the goold was lyin’ in the sthreet,
An’ guineas in the very mud that sthuck
To the ould brogans on a poor man’s feet.’

‘Begorra, Pat,’ says Dolan, ‘may ould Nick
Fly off wid thim rapscallions, schaming rogues,
An’ sind thim thrampin’ purgatory’s flure
Wid red hot guineas in their polished brogues!’

‘Och, thin,’ says I, ‘meself agrees to that!’
Ould Dolan smiled wid eyes so bright an’ grey;
Says he, ‘Kape up yer heart; I never kew
Since I come out a single hungry day.

‘But thin I left the crowded city sthreets-
Th’are men galore to toil in thim an’ die;
Meself wint wid me axe to cut a home
In the green woods beneath the clear, swate sky.

‘I did that same; an’ God be praised this day!
Plenty sits smilin’ by me own dear dure;
An’ in them years I never wanst have seen
A famished child creep tremblin’ on me flure.’

I listened to ould Dolan’s honest words:
That’s twenty years ago this very spring,
An’ Mick is married, an’ me Rosie wears
A swateheart’s little shinin’ goulden ring.

‘Twould make yer heart lape just to take a look
At the green fields upon me own big farm;
An’ God be praised! all men may have the same
That owns an axe an’ has a strong right arm!

poem – a harvest song

THE noon was as a crystal bowl
The red wine mantled through;
Around it like a Viking’s beard
The red-gold hazes blew,
As tho’ he quaffed the ruddy draught
While swift his galley flew.

This mighty Viking was the Night;
He sailed about the earth,
And called the merry harvest-time
To sing him songs of mirth;
And all on earth or in the sea
To melody gave birth.

The valleys of the earth were full
To rocky lip and brim
With golden grain that shone and sang
When woods were still and dim,
A little song from sheaf to sheaf-
Sweet Plenty’s cradle-hymn.

O gallant were the high tree-tops,
And gay the strain they sang!
And cheerfully the moon-lit hills
Their echo-music rang!
And what so proud and what so loud
As was the ocean’s clang!

But O the little humming song
That sang among the sheaves!
‘Twas grander than the airy march
That rattled thro’ the leaves,
And prouder, louder, than the deep,
Bold clanging of the waves:

‘The lives of men, the lives of men
With every sheaf are bound!
We are the blessing which annuls
The curse upon the ground!
And he who reaps the Golden Grain
The Golden Love hath found.’

poem – a battle

SLOWLY the Moon her banderoles of light
Unfurls upon the sky; her fingers drip
Pale, silvery tides; her armoured warriors
Leave Day’s bright tents of azure and of gold,
Wherein they hid them, and in silence flock
Upon the solemn battlefield of Night
To try great issues with the blind old king,
The Titan Darkness, who great Pharoah fought
With groping hands, and conquered for a span.

The starry hosts with silver lances prick
The scarlet fringes of the tents of Day,
And turn their crystal shields upon their breasts,
And point their radiant lances, and so wait
The stirring of the giant in his caves.

The solitary hills send long, sad sighs
As the blind Titan grasps their locks of pine
And trembling larch to drag him toward the sky,
That his wild-seeking hands may clutch the Moon
From her war-chariot, scythed and wheeled with light,
Crush bright-mailed stars, and so, a sightless king,
Reign in black desolation! Low-set vales
Weep under the black hollow of his foot,
While sobs the sea beneath his lashing hair
Of rolling mists, which, strong as iron cords,
Twine round tall masts and drag them to the reefs.

Swifter rolls up Astarte’s light-scythed car;
Dense rise the jewelled lances, groves of light;
Red flouts Mars’ banner in the voiceless war
(The mightiest combat is the tongueless one);
The silvery dartings of the lances prick
His fingers from the mountains, catch his locks
And toss them in black fragments to the winds,
Pierce the vast hollow of his misty foot,
Level their diamond tips against his breast,
And force him down to lair within his pit
And thro’ its chinks thrust down his groping hands
To quicken Hell with horror-for the strength
That is not of the Heavens is of Hell.

poem – his sweetheart

Sylvia’s lattices were dark­
Roses made them narrow.
In the dawn there came a Spark,
Armèd with an arrow:
Blithe he burst by dewy spray,
Winged by bud and blossom,
All undaunted urged his way
Straight to Sylvia’s bosom.
‘Sylvia! Sylvia! Sylvia!’ he
Like a bee kept humming,
‘Wake, my sweeting; waken thee,
For thy Soldier’s coming!’
Sylvia sleeping in the dawn,
Dreams that Cupid’s trill is
Roses singing on the lawn,
Courting crested lilies.
Sylvia smiles and Sylvia sleeps,
Sylvia weeps and slumbers;
Cupid to her pink ear creeps,
Pipes his pretty numbers.
Sylvia dreams that bugles play,
Hears a martial drumming;
Sylvia springs to meet the day
With her Soldier coming.

Happy Sylvia, on thee wait
All the gracious graces!
Venus mild her cestus plait
Round thy lawns and laces!
Flora fling a flower most fair,
Hope a rainbow lend thee!
All the nymphs to Cupid dear
On this day befriend thee!
‘Sylvia! Sylvia! Sylvia!’ hear
How he keeps a-humming,
Laughing in her jewelled ear,
‘Sweet, thy Soldier’s coming!’

poem – 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 snatch’d her bays
At Achaea’s stubborn door.

III.

Still with thews of iron bound,
Vastly the Achean rose,
Godward 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 God 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–
Godlike 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.

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 God.

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 Gods:
From the long, sleek, yellow shore,
Oliv’d hill or dusky sod,

XXI.

Gaz’d the anger’d Gods, 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
‘Kinship to the drunken God!

XXX.

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

XXXI.

‘Drink, till even madness flies
‘At the nimble wine’s pursuit;
‘Till the God within thee lies
‘Trampled by the earth-born brute.

XXXII.

‘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.

XXXIII.

‘Gods! 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!

XXXIV.

‘Thou, my Hermos, turn thy eyes,
‘(God-touch’d still their frank, bold blue)
‘On the Helot–mark the rise
‘Of the Bacchic riot through

XXXV.

‘Knotted vein, and surging breast:
‘Mark the wild, insensate, mirth:
‘God-ward boast–the driv’ling jest,
‘Till he grovel to the earth.

XXXVI.

‘Drink, dull slave,’ the Spartan cried:
Meek the Helot touch’d the brim;
Scented all the purple tide:
Drew the Bacchic soul to him.

XXXVII.

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.

XXXVIII.

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.

XXXIX.

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 cluster’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 pass’d before his sight,
Dark-robed and articulate.

XLVII.

No black omens on his eyes,
Sinistre–God-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 God.’

XLIX.

‘Mark, my Hermos–turn to steel
The soft tendons of thy soul!
Watch the God 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 lust of the wine;
Watch the God 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!

LV.

‘Helot clay! Gods! 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 Gods!
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.

‘Gods! 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, God-born spark,
Trodden by the rush of swine!

LXII.

‘Gods! 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-balls 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 God-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 Gods!
Nor their calm might yielded ye!
Not beneath thy chains and rods
Dies man’s God-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 Gods who gave;
Fierce the hot flames pant and shine
In the bruis’d breast of the slave!

LXXVI.

Changeless stand the Gods!–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 Gods!

LXXVIII.

Thro’ the shackle-canker’d dust,
Thro’ the gyv’d soul, foul and dark
Force they, changeless Gods 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!

LXXX.

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.

LXXXI.

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.

LXXXII.

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.

LXXXIII.

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

LXXXIV.

Changeless are the Gods–and bred
All their wrath divine in him!
Bull-like fell his furious head,
Swell’d vast cords on breast and limb.

LXXXV.

As loud-flaming stones are hurl’d
From foul craters–thus the gods
Cast their just wrath on the world,
From the mire of Helot clods.

LXXXVI.

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

LXXXVII.

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.

LXXXVIII.

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

LXXXIX.

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 lust of bloody 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.

XCIII.

As the discus smites the ground,
Smote his golden head the stone;
Of a tall shaft–burst a sound
And but one–his dying groan!

XCIV.

Lo! the tyrant’s iron might!
Lo! the Helot’s yokes and chains!
Slave-slain in the throbbing light
Lay the sole child of his veins.

XCV.

Laugh’d the Helot loud and full,
Gazing at his tyrant’s face;
Low’r’d his front like captive bull,
Bellowing from the fields of Thrace.

XCVI.

Rose the pale shaft redly flush’d,
Red with Bacchic light and blood;
On its stone the Helot rush’d–
Stone the tyrant Spartan stood.

XCVII.

Lo! the magic of the wine
From far marsh of Amyclae!
Bier’d upon the ruddy vine,
Spartan dust and Helot lay!

XCVIII.

Spouse of Bacchus reel’d the day,
Red track’d on the throbbing sods;
Dead–but free–the Helot lay,
Just and changeless stand the Gods!