On his knotted hands, upflung
O'er his low'r'd front—all white,
Fair young Hermos quiv'ring hung;
As the discus flashes bright
XC.
In the player's hand—the boy,
Naked—blossom-pallid lay;
Rous'd to lust of bloody joy,
Throbb'd the slave's embruted clay.
XCI.
Loud he laugh'd—the father sprang
From the Spartan's iron mail!
Late—the bubbling death-cry rang
On the hot pulse of the gale!
XCII.
As the shining discus flies,
From the thrower's strong hand whirl'd;
Hermos cleft the air—his cries
Lance-like to the Spartan hurl'd.
XCIII.
As the discus smites the ground,
Smote his golden head the stone;
Of a tall shaft—burst a sound
And but one—his dying groan!
XCIV.