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.