Lo! the tyrant's iron might!
Lo! the Helot's yokes and chains!
Slave-slain in the throbbing light
Lay the sole child of his veins.
XCV.
Laugh'd the Helot loud and full,
Gazing at his tyrant's face;
Low'r'd his front like captive bull,
Bellowing from the fields of Thrace.
XCVI.
Rose the pale shaft redly flush'd,
Red with Bacchic light and blood;
On its stone the Helot rush'd—
Stone the tyrant Spartan stood.
XCVII.
Lo! the magic of the wine
From far marsh of Amyclae!
Bier'd upon the ruddy vine,
Spartan dust and Helot lay!
XCVIII.
Spouse of Bacchus reel'd the day,
Red track'd on the throbbing sods;
Dead—but free—the Helot lay,
Just and changeless stand the Gods!