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.

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

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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