The Marquis looks towards the lighted stage;
One hand is his; the lover's lips engage
The other, while the lady stands between,
Calm in her beauty, smiling and serene.
Like figures poised a moment in the dance,
They stay, the living monument of France,
Nor seem to hear, beneath the 'cello's whine,
The snarling mongrel pack of 'Eighty-nine. . .