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,