Classic Poem

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.

Quenched the fierce Achean gaze
 Dorian foeman paused before,
Where cold Sparta snatched her bays
 At Achea's stubborn door.

Still with thews of iron bound,
 Vastly the Achean rose
Godward from the brazen ground,
 High before his Spartan foes.

Still the strength his fathers knew
 (Dauntless when the foe they faced)
Vein and muscle bounded through,
 Tense his Helot sinews braced.

Still the constant womb of Earth
 Blindly moulded all her part,
As when to a lordly birth
 Achean freeman left her heart.

Still insensate mother bore
 Goodly sons for Helot graves;
Iron necks that meekly wore
 Sparta's yoke as Sparta's slaves.

Still, O god-mocked mother! she
 Smiled upon her sons of clay,
Nursed them on her breast and knee,
 Shameless in the shameful day;

Knew not old Achea's fires
 Burnt no more in souls or veins,
Godlike hosts of high desires
 Died to clank of Spartan chains.

Low the sun beat on the land,
 Purple slope and olive wood;
With the wine-cup in his hand,
 Vast the Helot herdsman stood.

As long, gnarlèd roots enclasp
 Some red boulder, fierce entwine
His strong fingers in their grasp
 Bowl of bright Caecuban wine.

From far Marsh of Amyclae,
 Sentried by lank poplars tall,
Thro' the red slant of the day
 Shrill pipes did lament and call.

Pierced the swaying air sharp pines
 Thyrsi-like; the gilded ground
Clasped black shadows of brown vines;
 Swallows beat their mystic round.

Day was at her high unrest:
 Fevered with the wine of light,
Loosing all her golden vest,
 Reeled she toward the coming night.

Fierce and full her pulses beat:
 Bacchic throbs the dry earth shook,
Stirred the hot air wild and sweet,
 Maddened every vine-dark brook.

Had the red grape never burst
 All its heart of fire out
To the red vat all athirst,
 To the treader's song and shout;

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,

Still had reeled the yellow haze,
 Still had pulsed the sun-pierced sod,
Still had throbbed the vine-clad days
 To the pulses of their god.

Fierce the dry lips of the Earth
 Quaffed the subtle Bacchic soul,
Felt its rage and felt its mirth,
 Wreathed as for the banquet bowl.

Sapphire-breasted Bacchic priest
 Stood the Sky above the lands,
Sun and moon, at west and east,
 Brazen cymbals in his hands.

Temples, altars smote no more
 Sharply white as brows of god,
From the long, sleek, yellow shore,
 Olived hill or dusky sod.

Gazed the angered gods while he,
 Bacchus, made their temples his;
Flushed their marble silently
 With the red light of his kiss.

Red, the arches of his feet
 Spanned grape-gleaming vales; the Earth
Reeled from grove to marble street,
 Mad with echoes of his mirth.

Nostrils widened to the air,
 As, above the wine-brimmed bowl,
Men and women everywhere
 Breathed the fierce, sweet Bacchic soul.

Flowed the vat and roared the beam,
 Laughed the must; while far and shrill,
Sweet as notes in Pan-born dream,
 Loud pipes sang by vale and hill.

Earth was full of mad unrest,
 While red Bacchus held his state;
And her brown vine-girdled breast
 Shook to his wild joy and hate.

Strife crouched red-eyed in the vine,
 In its tendrils Eros strayed;
Anger rode upon the wine,
 Laughter on the cup-lip played.

Day was at her chief unrest;
 Red the light on plain and wood;
Slavish-eyed and still of breast,
 Vast the Helot herdsman stood.

Wide his hairy nostrils blew,
 Maddening incense breathing up;
Oak to iron sinews grew
 Round the rich Caecuban cup.

“Drink, dull slave,” the Spartan said;
 “Drink, until the Helot clod
Feels within him subtly bred
 Kinship to the drunken god;

“Drink, until the leaden blood
 Stirs and beats about thy brain,
Till the hot Caecuban flood
 Drowns the iron of thy chain;

“Drink, till even madness flies
 At the nimble wine's pursuit,
Till the god within thee lies
 Trampled by the earth-born brute;

“Helot, drink, nor spare the wine;
 Drain the deep, the maddening bowl;
Flesh and sinews, slave, are mine,
 Now I claim thy Helot soul!

“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.

“Thou, my Hermos, turn thine eyes”
 (God-touched still their frank, bold blue)
“On the Helot; mark the rise
 Of the Bacchic riot through.

“Knotted vein and surging breast;
 Mark the wild, insensate mirth,
Godward boast, the drivelling jest,
 Till he grovel to the earth!

“Drink, dull slave!” the Spartan cried.
 Meek the Helot touched the brim,
Scented all the purple tide,
 Drew the Bacchic soul to him.

Cold the thin-lipped Spartan smiled.
 Couched beneath the weighted vine,
Large-eyed gazed the Spartan child
 On the Helot and the wine.

Rose pale Doric shafts behind,
 Stern and strong; and thro' and thro',
Weaving with the grape-breathed wind,
 Restless swallows called and flew.

Dropped the rose-flushed doves and hung
 On the fountains' murmuring brims.
To the bronzed vine Hermos clung,
 Silver-like his naked limbs.

Flashed and flushed rich coppered leaves;
 Whitened by his ruddy hair,
Pallid as the marble eaves,
 Awed, he met the Helot's stare.

Clanged the brazen goblet down;
 Marble-bred loud echoes stirred.
With fixed fingers, knotted, brown,
 Dumb the Helot grasped his beard;

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.

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.

On his swarthy temples grew
 Purple veins, like clustered grapes;
Past his rolling pupils blew
 Wine-born, fierce, lascivious shapes.

Cold the haughty Spartan smiled—
 His the power to knit that day
Bacchic fires, insensate, wild,
 To the grand Achean clay;

His the might—hence his the right.
 Who should bid him pause? Nor Fate,
Warning, passed before his sight,
 Dark-robed and articulate;

Nor black omens on his eyes,
 Sinister, god-sent, darkly broke;
Nor from ruddy earth or skies
 Portents to him mutely spoke.

“Lo!” he said, “he maddens now;
 Flames divine do scathe the clod;
Round his reeling Helot brow
 Stings the garland of the god.”

“Mark, my Hermos, turn to steel
 The soft tendons of thy soul;
Watch the god beneath the heel
 Of the strong brute swooning roll!

“Shame, my Hermos! Honey-dew
 Breeds not on the Spartan spear;
Steel thy mother-eyes of blue,
 Blush to death that weakling tear.

“Nay, behold! breed Spartan scorn
 Of the red lust of the wine;
Watch the god himself down borne
 By the brutish rush of swine.

“Lo, the magic of the drink!
 At the nimble wine's pursuit,
See the man-halfed satyr sink
 All the human in the brute.

“Lo, the magic of the cup!
 Watch the frothing Helot rave!
As great buildings labour up
 From the corpse of slaughtered slave,

“Build the Spartan virtue high
 From the Helot's wine-dead soul;
Scorn the wild, hot flames that fly
 From the purple-hearted bowl.

“Helot clay! Gods, what its worth,
 Balanced with proud Sparta's rock!
Ours its force to till the earth;
 Ours its soul to gyve and mock.

“Ours its sullen might. Ye Gods,
 Vastly build the Achean clay,
Iron-breast the slavish clods,—
  Ours their Helot souls to slay.

“Knit great thews; smite sinews vast
 Into steel; build Helot bones
Iron-marrowed: such will last,
 Ground by ruthless Sparta's stones.

“Crown the strong-brute satyr-wise,
 Narrow-wall his Helot brain,
Dash the soul from breast and eyes,
 Lash him toward the earth again.

“Gods, recall, your spark at birth
 Lit his soul with high desire;
Blend him, grind him with the earth,
 Tread out old Achea's fire.

“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.

“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.”

Cold the haughty Spartan smiled;
 Maddening from the purple hills
Sang the far pipes, sweet and wild.
 Red as sun-pierced daffodils,

Neck-curved serpent, silent, scaled
 With locked rainbows, stole the sea
On the sleek, long beaches; wailed
 Doves from column and from tree.

Reeled the mote-swarmed haze, and thick
 Beat the hot pulse of the air;
In the Helot, fierce and quick,
 All his soul sprang from its lair.

As the drowsing tiger, deep
 In the dim cell, hears the shout
From the arena—from his sleep
 Launches to its thunders out—

So to fierce calls of the wine
 (Strong the red Caecuban bowl!)
From its slumber, deep, supine,
 Panted up the Helot soul,

At his blood-flushed eyeballs reared.
 (Mad and sweet came pipes and songs!)
Roused at last, the wild soul glared,
 Spear-thrust with a million wrongs.

Past—the primal, senseless bliss;
 Past—red laughter of the grapes;
Past—the wine's first honeyed kiss;
 Past—the wine-born, wanton shapes!

Still the Helot stands, his feet
 Set like oak-roots; in his gaze
Black clouds roll and lightnings meet,
 Flames from old Achean days.

Who may quench the god-born fire
 Pulsing at the soul's deep root?
Tyrant, grind it in the mire,
 Lo, it vivifies the brute!

Stings the chain-embruted clay,
 Senseless to his yoke-bound shame;
Goads him on to rend and slay,
 Knowing not the spurring flame!

Tyrant, changeless stand the gods,
 Nor their calm might yielded thee;
Not beneath thy chains and rods
 Dies man's god-gift, Liberty!

Bruteward lash the Helots, hold
 Brain and soul and clay in gyves,
Coin their blood and sweat in gold,
 Build thy cities on their lives,—

Comes a day the spark divine
 Answers to the gods who gave;
Fierce the hot flames pant and shine
 In the bruised breast of the slave.

Changeless stand the gods!—nor he
 Knows he answers their behest,
Feels the might of their decree
 In the blind rage of his breast.

Tyrant, tremble when ye tread
 Down the servile Helot clods!
Under despot heel is bred
 The white anger of the gods.

Thro' the shackle-cankered dust,
 Thro' the gyved soul, foul and dark,
Force they, changeless gods and just,
 Up the bright, eternal spark,

Till, like lightnings vast and fierce,
 On the land its terror smites;
Till its flames the tyrant pierce,
 Till the dust the despot bites.

Day was at its chief unrest.
 Stone from stone the Helot rose;
Fixed his eyes; his naked breast
 Iron-walled his inner throes.

Rose-white in the dusky leaves
 Shone the frank-eyed Spartan child.
Low the pale doves on the eaves
 Made their soft moan, sweet and wild.

Wandering winds, fire-throated, stole,
 Sybils whispering from their books.
With the rush of wine from bowl
 Leaped the tendril-darkened brooks.

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

Changeless are the gods—and bred
 All their wrath divine in him.
Bull-like fell his furious head,
 Swelled vast cords on breast and limb.

As loud flaming stones are hurled
 From foul craters, thus the gods
Cast their just wrath on the world
 From the mire of Helot clods.

Still the furious Helot stood,
 Staring thro' the shafted space;
Dry-lipped for the Spartan blood,
 He of scourged Achea's race.

Sprang the Helot. Roared the vine,
 Rent from grey, long-wedded stones,
From pale shaft and dusky pine;
 Beat the fury of his groans,

Thunders inarticulate,
 Wordless curses, deep and wild;
Reached the long-poised sword of Fate
 To the Spartan thro' his child.

On his knotted hands upflung,
 O'er his lowered front, all white,
Fair young Hermos quiv'ring hung.
 As the discus flashes bright

In the player's hand, the boy,
 Naked, blossom-pallid, lay.
Roused to lust of bloody joy,
 Throbbed the slave's embruted clay.

Loud he laughed. The father sprang
 From the Spartan's iron mail.
Late!—the bubbling death-cry rang
 On the hot pulse of the gale.

As the shining discus flies,
 From the thrower's strong hand whirled,
Hermos cleft the air, his cries
 Lance-like to the Spartan hurled.

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.

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.

Laughed the Helot loud and full,
 Gazing at his tyrant's face;
Lowered his front like captive bull,
 Bellowing from the fields of Thrace.

Rose the pale shaft redly flushed,
 Red with Bacchic light and blood;
On its stone the Helot rushed—
 Stone the tyrant Spartan stood.

Lo, the magic of the wine
 From far Marsh of Amyclae!
Biered upon the ruddy vine,
 Spartan dust and Helot clay!

Spouse of Bacchus, reeled the day,
 Red-tracked on the throbbing sods;
Dead—but free—the Helot lay.
 Just and changeless stand the gods!