Volume 104 — THE FRENCH "SERPENTINE DANCE"

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!

Companions of his ardent youth, Or comrades of his riper years; The poor who felt his kindly ruth, And mourn him with unpurchased tears; Men of the world whose mordant sense Shorn of all maudlin sentiment Seemed the sharp touchstone of pretence; Soft hearts on swift world-bettering bent, All miss, all mourn the man whom all Responsive found to each high call. Old long-dead days of boisterous mirth, Far dim-seen hours of arduous fight When gaiety possessed the earth, When morning felt no fear of night; School-form, field, footlights, club! Eheu Fugaces! These, indeed, are fled, But thoughts of dashing Montagu, That dauntless soul now lying dead, After long fight with pitiless pain Make the old memories live again. Before the triumphs of the Court, Before the honours of the Bench, Wild days there were of toil and sport, Long ere our brows had learned to blench At threatenings of the first grey hair. Ah! cordial comrade, champion stout, The fierce ordeal you had to bear Is ended; fortune's final flout Has fallen, and that gallant breast Is still at last in well-earned rest. It was your happy lot to blend Sound brain and sympathetic heart; The loyal service of a friend, With worldly wisdom keen and tart. Shrewd advocate and councillor keen, You knew the world, yet pitied it; Compassion mild, not cynic spleen Tempered the edge of caustic wit. Farewell! It dims much pomp and state, Your title—"Poor Man's Magistrate!"