"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.