THE FRENCH "SERPENTINE DANCE"
or, Pas de Panama.
The Minuet's cold and modish grace,
Delirium of the Carmagnole,
Fair France has known. How will she pace
This frantic dance, and to what goal?
Beginning in triumphant sport,
She's tremulous now, with terror cold.
The whirl so dizzies, she breathes short;
The serpent spirals seem to fold
Laocöon-like about her limbs.
Tarantula-bitten victims so
Whirl madly. Shrinks her head and swims;
This is not glory's ardent glow,
But fever's hectic, herald sure
Of dread corruption, if unstayed.
Dance on the footing insecure
Of the keen edge of War's red blade,
Rather than this mad dervish spin,
Drunk with that poison-breath;
The music is the devil's din,
The dance—the modern Dance of Death!
