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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=413330" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Helot</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Low the sun beat on the land,<br>Red on vine and plain and wood;<br>With the wine-cup in his hand,<br>Vast the Helot herdsman stood.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>II.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Quench'd the fierce Achean gaze,<br>Dorian foemen paus'd before,<br>Where cold Sparta snatch'd her bays<br>At Achaea's stubborn door.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>III.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Still with thews of iron bound,<br>Vastly the Achean rose,<br>Godward from the brazen ground,<br>High before his Spartan foes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>IV.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Still the strength his fathers knew<br>(Dauntless when the foe they fac'd)<br>Vein and muscle bounded through,<br>Tense his Helot sinews brac'd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>V.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Still the constant womb of Earth,<br>Blindly moulded all her part;<br>As, when to a lordly birth,<br>Achean freemen left her heart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>VI.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Still, insensate mother, bore<br>Goodly sons for Helot graves;<br>Iron necks that meekly wore<br>Sparta's yoke as Sparta's slaves.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>VII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Still, O God mock'd mother! she<br>Smil'd upon her sons of clay:<br>Nurs'd them on her breast and knee,<br>Shameless in the shameful day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>VIII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Knew not old Achea's fires<br>Burnt no more in souls or veins--<br>Godlike hosts of high desires<br>Died to clank of Spartan chains.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>IX.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Low the sun beat on the land,<br>Purple slope and olive wood;<br>With the wine cup in his hand,<br>Vast the Helot herdsman stood.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>X.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As long, gnarl'd roots enclasp<br>Some red boulder, fierce entwine<br>His strong fingers, in their grasp<br>Bowl of bright Caecuban wine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XI.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">From far Marsh of Amyclae,<br>Sentried by lank poplars tall--<br>Thro' the red slant of the day,<br>Shrill pipes did lament and call.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Pierc'd the swaying air sharp pines,<br>Thyrsi-like, the gilded ground<br>Clasp'd black shadows of brown vines,<br>Swallows beat their mystic round.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XIII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Day was at her high unrest;<br>Fever'd with the wine of light,<br>Loosing all her golden vest,<br>Reel'd she towards the coming night.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XIV.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Fierce and full her pulses beat;<br>Bacchic throbs the dry earth shook;<br>Stirr'd the hot air wild and sweet;<br>Madden'd ev'ry vine-dark brook.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XV.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Had a red grape never burst,<br>All its heart of fire out;<br>To the red vat all a thirst,<br>To the treader's song and shout:</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XVI.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Had the red grape died a grape;<br>Nor, sleek daughter of the vine,<br>Found her unknown soul take shape<br>In the wild flow of the wine:</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XVII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Still had reel'd the yellow haze:<br>Still had puls'd the sun pierc'd sod<br>Still had throbb'd the vine clad days:<br>To the pulses of their God.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XVIII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Fierce the dry lips of the earth<br>Quaff'd the subtle Bacchic soul:<br>Felt its rage and felt its mirth,<br>Wreath'd as for the banquet bowl.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XIX.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sapphire-breasted Bacchic priest<br>Stood the sky above the lands;<br>Sun and Moon at East and West,<br>Brazen cymbals in his hands.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XX.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Temples, altars, smote no more,<br>Sharply white as brows of Gods:<br>From the long, sleek, yellow shore,<br>Oliv'd hill or dusky sod,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XXI.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Gaz'd the anger'd Gods, while he,<br>Bacchus, made their temples his;<br>Flushed their marble silently<br>With the red light of his kiss.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XXII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Red the arches of his feet<br>Spann'd grape-gleaming vales; the earth<br>Reel'd from grove to marble street,<br>Mad with echoes of his mirth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XXIII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nostrils widen'd to the air,<br>As above the wine brimm'd bowl:<br>Men and women everywhere<br>Breath'd the fierce, sweet Bacchic soul.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XXIV.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Flow'd the vat and roar'd the beam,<br>Laugh'd the must; while far and shrill,<br>Sweet as notes in Pan-born dream,<br>Loud pipes sang by vale and hill.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XXV.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Earth was full of mad unrest,<br>While red Bacchus held his state;<br>And her brown vine-girdl'd breast<br>Shook to his wild joy and hate.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XXVI.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Strife crouch'd red ey'd in the vine<br>In its tendrils Eros strayed;<br>Anger rode upon the wine;<br>Laughter on the cup-lip play'd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XXVII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Day was at her chief unrest--<br>Red the light on plain and wood<br>Slavish ey'd and still of breast,<br>Vast the Helot herdsman stood:</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XXVIII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wide his hairy nostrils blew,<br>Maddning incense breathing up;<br>Oak to iron sinews grew,<br>Round the rich Caecuban cup.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XXIX.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Drink, dull slave!' the Spartan said,<br>'Drink, until the Helot clod<br>'Feel within him subtly bred<br>'Kinship to the drunken God!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XXX.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Drink, until the leaden blood<br>'Stirs and beats about thy brain:<br>'Till the hot Caecuban flood<br>'Drown the iron of thy chain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XXXI.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Drink, till even madness flies<br>'At the nimble wine's pursuit;<br>'Till the God within thee lies<br>'Trampled by the earth-born brute.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XXXII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Helot drink--nor spare the wine;<br>'Drain the deep, the madd'ning bowl,<br>'Flesh and sinews, slave, are mine,<br>'Now I claim thy Helot soul.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XXXIII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Gods! ye love our Sparta; ye<br>'Gave with vine that leaps and runs<br>'O'er her slopes, these slaves to be<br>'Mocks and warnings to her sons!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XXXIV.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Thou, my Hermos, turn thy eyes,<br>'(God-touch'd still their frank, bold blue)<br>'On the Helot--mark the rise<br>'Of the Bacchic riot through</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XXXV.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Knotted vein, and surging breast:<br>'Mark the wild, insensate, mirth:<br>'God-ward boast--the driv'ling jest,<br>'Till he grovel to the earth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XXXVI.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Drink, dull slave,' the Spartan cried:<br>Meek the Helot touch'd the brim;<br>Scented all the purple tide:<br>Drew the Bacchic soul to him.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XXXVII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cold the thin lipp'd Spartan smiled:<br>Couch'd beneath the weighted vine,<br>Large-ey'd, gaz'd the Spartan child,<br>On the Helot and the wine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XXXVIII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Rose pale Doric shafts behind,<br>Stern and strong, and thro' and thro',<br>Weaving with the grape-breath'd wind,<br>Restless swallows call'd and flew.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XXXIX.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dropp'd the rose-flush'd doves and hung,<br>On the fountains murmuring brims;<br>To the bronz'd vine Hermos clung--<br>Silver-like his naked limbs</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XL.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Flash'd and flush'd: rich copper'd leaves,<br>Whiten'd by his ruddy hair;<br>Pallid as the marble eaves,<br>Aw'd he met the Helot's stare.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XLI.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Clang'd the brazen goblet down;<br>Marble-bred loud echoes stirr'd:<br>With fix'd fingers, knotted, brown,<br>Dumb, the Helot grasp'd his beard.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XLII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Heard the far pipes mad and sweet.<br>All the ruddy hazes thrill:<br>Heard the loud beam crash and beat,<br>In the red vat on the hill.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XLIII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wide his nostrils as a stag's<br>Drew the hot wind's fiery bliss;<br>Red his lips as river flags,<br>From the strong, Caecuban kiss.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XLIV.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">On his swarthy temples grew,<br>Purple veins like cluster'd grapes;<br>Past his rolling pupils blew,<br>Wine-born, fierce, lascivious shapes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XLV.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cold the haughty Spartan smiled--<br>His the power to knit that day,<br>Bacchic fires, insensate, wild,<br>To the grand Achean clay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XLVI.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His the might--hence his the right!<br>Who should bid him pause? nor Fate<br>Warning pass'd before his sight,<br>Dark-robed and articulate.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XLVII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No black omens on his eyes,<br>Sinistre--God-sent, darkly broke;<br>Nor from ruddy earth nor skies,<br>Portends to him mutely spoke.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XLVIII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Lo,' he said, 'he maddens now!<br>'Flames divine do scathe the clod;<br>'Round his reeling Helot brow<br>'Stings the garland of the God.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XLIX.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Mark, my Hermos--turn to steel<br>The soft tendons of thy soul!<br>Watch the God beneath the heel<br>Of the strong brute swooning roll!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>L.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Shame, my Hermos! honey-dew<br>Breeds not on the Spartan spear;<br>Steel thy mother-eyes of blue,<br>Blush to death that weakling tear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LI.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Nay, behold! breed Spartan scorn<br>Of the red lust of the wine;<br>Watch the God himself down-borne<br>By the brutish rush of swine!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Lo, the magic of the drink!<br>At the nimble wine's pursuit,<br>See the man-half'd satyr sink<br>All the human in the brute!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LIII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Lo, the magic of the cup!<br>Watch the frothing Helot rave!<br>As great buildings labour up<br>From the corpse of slaughter'd slave,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LIV.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Build the Spartan virtue high<br>From the Helot's wine-dead soul;<br>Scorn the wild, hot flames that fly<br>From the purple-hearted bowl!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LV.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Helot clay! Gods! what its worth,<br>Balanc'd with proud Sparta's rock?<br>Ours--its force to till the earth;<br>Ours--its soul to gyve and mock!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LVI.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Ours, its sullen might. Ye Gods!<br>Vastly build the Achean clay;<br>Iron-breast our slavish clods--<br>_Ours_ their Helot souls to slay!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LVII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Knit great thews--smite sinews vast<br>Into steel--build Helot bones<br>Iron-marrowed:--such will last<br>Ground by ruthless Sparta's stones.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LVIII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Crown the strong brute satyr wise!<br>Narrow-wall his Helot brain;<br>Dash the soul from breast and eyes,<br>Lash him toward the earth again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LIX.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Make a giant for our need,<br>Weak to feel and strong to toil;<br>Dully-wise to dig or bleed<br>On proud Sparta's alien soil!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LX.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Gods! recall thy spark at birth,<br>Lit his soul with high desire;<br>Blend him, grind him with the earth,<br>Tread out old Achea's fire!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXI.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Lo, my Hermos! laugh and mark,<br>See the swift mock of the wine;<br>Faints the primal, God-born spark,<br>Trodden by the rush of swine!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Gods! ye love our Sparta--ye<br>Gave with vine that leaps and runs<br>O'er her slopes, these slaves to be<br>Mocks and warnings to her sons!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXIII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cold the haughty Spartan smil'd.<br>Madd'ning from the purple hills<br>Sang the far pipes, sweet and wild.<br>Red as sun-pierc'd daffodils</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXIV.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Neck-curv'd, serpent, silent, scaled<br>With lock'd rainbows, stole the sea;<br>On the sleek, long beaches; wail'd<br>Doves from column and from tree.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXV.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Reel'd the mote swarm'd haze, and thick<br>Beat the hot pulse of the air;<br>In the Helot, fierce and quick,<br>All his soul sprang from its lair.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXVI.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As the drowzing tiger, deep<br>In the dim cell, hears the shout<br>From the arena--from his sleep<br>Launches to its thunders out--</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXVII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So to fierce calls of the wine<br>(Strong the red Caecuban bowl!)<br>From its slumber, deep, supine,<br>Panted up the Helot soul.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXVIII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At his blood-flush'd eye-balls rear'd,<br>(Mad and sweet came pipes and songs),<br>Rous'd at last the wild soul glar'd,<br>Spear-thrust with a million wrongs.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXIX.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Past--the primal, senseless bliss;<br>Past--red laughter of the grapes;<br>Past--the wine's first honey'd kiss;<br>Past--the wine-born, wanton shapes!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXX.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Still the Helot stands--his feet<br>Set like oak roots: in his gaze<br>Black clouds roll and lightnings meet--<br>Flames from old Achean days.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXXI.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who may quench the God-born fire,<br>Pulsing at the soul's deep root?<br>Tyrants! grind it in the mire,<br>Lo, it vivifies the brute!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXXII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Stings the chain-embruted clay,<br>Senseless to his yoke-bound shame;<br>Goads him on to rend and slay,<br>Knowing not the spurring flame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXXIII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Tyrants, changeless stand the Gods!<br>Nor their calm might yielded ye!<br>Not beneath thy chains and rods<br>Dies man's God-gift, Liberty!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXXIV.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Bruteward lash thy Helots--hold<br>Brain and soul and clay in gyves;<br>Coin their blood and sweat in gold,<br>Build thy cities on their lives.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXXV.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Comes a day the spark divine<br>Answers to the Gods who gave;<br>Fierce the hot flames pant and shine<br>In the bruis'd breast of the slave!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXXVI.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Changeless stand the Gods!--nor he<br>Knows he answers their behest;<br>Feels the might of their decree<br>In the blind rage of his breast.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXXVII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Tyrants! tremble when ye tread<br>Down the servile Helot clods;<br>Under despot heel is bred<br>The white anger of the Gods!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXXVIII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thro' the shackle-canker'd dust,<br>Thro' the gyv'd soul, foul and dark<br>Force they, changeless Gods and just!<br>Up the bright eternal spark.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXXIX.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Till, like lightnings vast and fierce,<br>On the land its terror smites;<br>Till its flames the tyrants pierce,<br>Till the dust the despot bites!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXXX.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Day was at its chief unrest,<br>Stone from stone the Helot rose;<br>Fix'd his eyes--his naked breast<br>Iron-wall'd his inner throes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXXXI.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Rose-white in the dusky leaves,<br>Shone the frank-ey'd Spartan child;<br>Low the pale doves on the eaves,<br>Made their soft moan, sweet and wild.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXXXII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wand'ring winds, fire-throated, stole,<br>Sybils whisp'ring from their books;<br>With the rush of wine from bowl,<br>Leap'd the tendril-darken'd brooks.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXXXIII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As the leathern cestus binds<br>Tense the boxer's knotted hands;<br>So the strong wine round him winds,<br>Binds his thews to iron bands.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXXXIV.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Changeless are the Gods--and bred<br>All their wrath divine in him!<br>Bull-like fell his furious head,<br>Swell'd vast cords on breast and limb.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXXXV.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As loud-flaming stones are hurl'd<br>From foul craters--thus the gods<br>Cast their just wrath on the world,<br>From the mire of Helot clods.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXXXVI.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Still the furious Helot stood,<br>Staring thro' the shafted space;<br>Dry-lipp'd for the Spartan blood,<br>He of scourg'd Achea's race.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXXXVII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sprang the Helot--roar'd the vine,<br>Rent from grey, long-wedded stones--<br>From pale shaft and dusky pine,<br>Beat the fury of his groans.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXXXVIII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thunders inarticulate:<br>Wordless curses, deep and wild;<br>Reach'd the long pois'd sword of Fate,<br>To the Spartan thro' his child.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>LXXXIX.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">On his knotted hands, upflung<br>O'er his low'r'd front--all white,<br>Fair young Hermos quiv'ring hung;<br>As the discus flashes bright</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XC.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the player's hand--the boy,<br>Naked--blossom-pallid lay;<br>Rous'd to lust of bloody joy,<br>Throbb'd the slave's embruted clay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XCI.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Loud he laugh'd--the father sprang<br>From the Spartan's iron mail!<br>Late--the bubbling death-cry rang<br>On the hot pulse of the gale!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XCII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As the shining discus flies,<br>From the thrower's strong hand whirl'd;<br>Hermos cleft the air--his cries<br>Lance-like to the Spartan hurl'd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XCIII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As the discus smites the ground,<br>Smote his golden head the stone;<br>Of a tall shaft--burst a sound<br>And but one--his dying groan!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XCIV.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lo! the tyrant's iron might!<br>Lo! the Helot's yokes and chains!<br>Slave-slain in the throbbing light<br>Lay the sole child of his veins.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XCV.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Laugh'd the Helot loud and full,<br>Gazing at his tyrant's face;<br>Low'r'd his front like captive bull,<br>Bellowing from the fields of Thrace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XCVI.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Rose the pale shaft redly flush'd,<br>Red with Bacchic light and blood;<br>On its stone the Helot rush'd--<br>Stone the tyrant Spartan stood.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XCVII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lo! the magic of the wine<br>From far marsh of Amyclae!<br>Bier'd upon the ruddy vine,<br>Spartan dust and Helot lay!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XCVIII.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Spouse of Bacchus reel'd the day,<br>Red track'd on the throbbing sods;<br>Dead--but free--the Helot lay,<br>Just and changeless stand the Gods!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Isabella+Valancy+Crawford">Isabella Valancy Crawford</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=413330" data-title="The Helot de Isabella Valancy Crawford" data-description="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 st..."></div>
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