Changeless are the Gods—and bred
All their wrath divine in him!
Bull-like fell his furious head,
Swell'd vast cords on breast and limb.
LXXXV.
As loud-flaming stones are hurl'd
From foul craters—thus the gods
Cast their just wrath on the world,
From the mire of Helot clods.
LXXXVI.
Still the furious Helot stood,
Staring thro' the shafted space;
Dry-lipp'd for the Spartan blood,
He of scourg'd Achea's race.
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.
LXXXIX.