O'er her slopes, these slaves to be
Mocks and warnings to her sons!
Thou, my Hermos, turn thy eyes
(God-touched still their frank, bold blue)
On the Helot—mark the rise
Of the Bacchic riot through
Knotted vein and surging breast:
Mark the wild, insensate mirth:
God-ward boast—the drivelling jest,
Till he grovel to the earth.