Past—the primal, senseless bliss;
Past—red laughter of the grapes;
Past—the wine's first honey'd kiss;
Past—the wine-born, wanton shapes!
LXX.
Still the Helot stands—his feet
Set like oak roots: in his gaze
Black clouds roll and lightnings meet—
Flames from old Achean days.
LXXI.
Who may quench the God-born fire,
Pulsing at the soul's deep root?
Tyrants! grind it in the mire,
Lo, it vivifies the brute!
LXXII.
Stings the chain-embruted clay,
Senseless to his yoke-bound shame;
Goads him on to rend and slay,
Knowing not the spurring flame.
LXXIII.
Tyrants, changeless stand the Gods!
Nor their calm might yielded ye!
Not beneath thy chains and rods
Dies man's God-gift, Liberty!
LXXIV.