Bruteward lash thy Helots—hold
Brain and soul and clay in gyves;
Coin their blood and sweat in gold,
Build thy cities on their lives.
LXXV.
Comes a day the spark divine
Answers to the Gods who gave;
Fierce the hot flames pant and shine
In the bruis'd breast of the slave!
LXXVI.
Changeless stand the Gods!—nor he
Knows he answers their behest;
Feels the might of their decree
In the blind rage of his breast.
LXXVII.
Tyrants! tremble when ye tread
Down the servile Helot clods;
Under despot heel is bred
The white anger of the Gods!
LXXVIII.
Thro' the shackle-canker'd dust,
Thro' the gyv'd soul, foul and dark
Force they, changeless Gods and just!
Up the bright eternal spark.
LXXIX.