"Drink, dull slave!" the Spartan cried:
Meek the Helot touched the brim;
Scented all the purple tide;
Drew the Bacchic soul to him.
Cold the thin-lipped Spartan smiled:
Couched beneath the weighted vine,
Large-eyed gazed the Spartan child
On the Helot and the wine.
Rose pale Doric shafts behind,
Stern and strong, and thro' and thro',