"O'er her slopes, these slaves to be
"Mocks and warnings to her sons!


XXXIV.

"Thou, my Hermos, turn thy eyes,
"(God-touch'd still their frank, bold blue)
"On the Helot--mark the rise
"Of the Bacchic riot through


XXXV.

"Knotted vein, and surging breast:
"Mark the wild, insensate, mirth:
"God-ward boast--the driv'ling jest,
"Till he grovel to the earth.


XXXVI.

"Drink, dull slave," the Spartan cried:
Meek the Helot touch'd the brim;
Scented all the purple tide:
Drew the Bacchic soul to him.


XXXVII.